The Unromancing Of Roma

Settling In

2010-08-31T09:36:00.000-07:00

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.

Final Protest Of The Fall Season

2010-08-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

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.”

What The Hell Am I Doing, Part II

2010-08-19T12:45:00.000-07:00

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.

Everyone Falls In Love

2010-08-12T12:40:00.000-07:00

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.

One Big Huge

2010-08-05T12:38:00.000-07:00

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.

I Have To Tell You Something

2010-07-29T12:35:00.000-07:00

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.”

The Beans Spilleth Over

2010-07-22T12:33:00.000-07:00

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.

Giving No Thanks

2010-07-15T12:28:00.000-07:00

I go from groggy to shocked in a split second. “Steeve! What are you doing here? How did you know where my parents live?”

He puffs out his chest and puts his fists on his hips. “I’m an officer of the law. I know these things.” He laughs nervously and shifts from side to side. I bite my tongue, pushing away the urge to tell him that campus security is not exactly the FBI. His breath comes out of his nose and mouth like smoke.

My mom comes up behind me, her chin on my shoulder. “Are you going to let him in, Marie?”

I waggle her chin off. “I’m not sure.”

My mom laughs. “Oh, what a sense of humor you have. Come on in, young man.”

He kind of salutes her as he steps inside. “Thanks, ma’am. I’m Steeve. Marie’s boyfriend.” He extends a hand.

What?!? What the hell is he doing? I haven’t spoken to him since bad sex night and we’re somehow a couple. Granted, it was pretty shitty of me to jet out and not speak to him after that night but for him to consider us a couple? Nope. Uh-uh. No way. “Um, yes, Mom. This is my friend, Steeve.” I emphasize friend, to make her understand that he said boyfriend meaning that he’s a boy and he’s my friend, in the same way that she calls all of my female friends my girlfriends.

Mom doesn’t catch on. She hugs my shoulder. “Marie! You keep your romances such secrets.”

I scoot her out of the kitchen while saying instead of asking, “Mom, will you excuse us please.”

“Of course,” she says over her shoulder. “You lovebirds kiss your hellos in private.” I wait until she’s out of earshot and then whirl around.

I stomp my foot. “What the hell are you doing?” I hiss.

“Marie. You left me the other night. You haven’t called me back.”

I nod furiously. “Yeah. That’s because you’re weird.”

He undulates up and down as he speaks. “I thought you liked quirky guys.” So he knows he’s weird. Interesting. Not interesting enough.

“Steeve, why do you hide your past from me? Why didn’t you tell me that you’ve been married?”

Steeve sweats. Steeve shifts uncomfortably. Steeve grabs my wrists. “I don’t want you to judge me, Marie.”

I draw away. “I don’t want to wind up headless in your photo albums.”

“You found my heads?” He asks as if that’s normal!

Now I start flailing. The Italian in me comes out. “And your wedding photos and the shredded articles. You’re a man of mystery.” I hear chatter in the living room. My mom must be waking everyone up with stories of my hunky boyfriend in the kitchen.

He waves his hands and shakes his head as if to make what I’m saying disappear. “I know. I know all that. Jeez, I love you.”

Oh, no. Not this. Not today. “No you don’t love me.” I back away.

He closes the gap. “Marie, you have to believe that I love you and you need to love me back. I don’t have much time. They’re onto me and we need to run away. The others don’t matter. I thought I loved them until now that I’ve found you and you’ve made me discover what love is. You are love, Marie. You’re it for me.” He’s breathing hard and his eyes are wide and glassy and wild. I don’t smell alcohol. He’s not drunk. Not high either. He’s just going crazy. Not mean crazy, the way Thomas was. Still crazy all the same. Maybe that’s my problem. I turn sane men mad. That’s a curse I’ll have to get reversed. First, I need to get Steeve out of my parents’ house.

He continues the madness. “Marie, come with me. Grab your coat and we’ll go. I’m all packed. I just need to get a few things from campus and then we’ll run. Like the wind. Like the horses.” Lots of giant arm movements are going on. Saliva, too. Lots of saliva.

I shake my head and take my normal Italian stance—one arm on a hip, the other bent at the elbow, my hand shaking at him with my fingertips closed and pointing. “What are you talking about? Who’s after you? What horses?” I am so confused right now. All I’m clear on is that Weirdo Steeve is the only Steeve there is and that he needs to leave.

“Everything okay in here?” Jeffery appears in the doorway, his tie loose, his top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone, an open root beer in his hand because he thought it was rude to drink in front of my parents.

“Yes, it’s fine.” I tuck my hair behind my ear.

Steeve recognizes Jeffery. “Your TA is here? And you didn’t invite me?”

“I’m not her TA. I’m her lover. She’s not going anywhere with you.” Jeffery puts his drink down on a counter and plays with my hair, untucking it from my ear. He just said lover and I love it. What other twenty-year-old guy would use the word lover? Seriously.

I open my mouth to speak. Steeve beats me to it. “You have wild fantasies, boy.”

Jeffery pulls away from me, squaring himself in front of Steeve. “Boy? You think I can’t kick your ass?”

Tony appears from behind Jeffery. “Who’s kicking whose ass?”

“No one!” I put my foot down, literally stomping on the parquet floor. “Steeve, just leave. That’s best.”

He falls from anger to sadness instantly. He wimpers, “No. I love you. Idolize you. We need to run.”

I step back more. “Yeah, like the wind. I know. Just go do it by yourself.”

Jeffery puts his hand on my waist. “Yeah, by yourself, bud.”

Steeve revisits his angry place. “Who are you to tell me what to do?” He puffs out his chest. That’s usually a move reserved for mating by gorillas but hey, why not at this point.

Tony steps between them. “Dude. Quit it. It’s a holiday.”

Steeve angles his puffed chest towards Tony. “Fuck you, too.”

I fume. “That’s my brother, you dickhead!” Before I know what I’m doing, I pick up Jeffery’s root beer and shove it upside down into Steeve’s pants. A puddle forms on his khaki crotch.

Without flinching, Steeve says, “Oh, brother? So sorry. I’m Steeve.” He puts out a hand as if being civilized will get him anywhere now. The dark dampness grows down his leg.

Jeffery slaps Steeve’s hand. “Just go. She doesn’t like you.”

Steeve takes the bottle out of his pants. “Oh, she likes you?”

Jeffery crosses his arms. “Yes, she does.”

Steeve asks me, “Do you, Marie?”

The three men all direct their eyes down at me. They leer. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. “Just go,” I squeak out and run to lock myself in the bathroom. I hear scuffling and a faint yet distinct, “I adore her” fade into the distance.

Five minutes go by. A knock on the door. “What?” I call out from the toilet.

“It’s Jeffery.”

“Come in.”

He enters and sits on the edge of the tub. “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Your family is worried. Your dad thought that since I know you so well I should come in and talk to you.”

“My dad catches on quick.”

“So you broke up with Steeve?”

I answer, “Yes. A short time ago.” I pause and then add, “It didn’t have anything to do with you, though.”

Jeffery sighs and laughs at the same time. “That’s somewhat hurtful.” He leans away from me, straightening his back. “And downright bitchy.”

“Sorry. I don’t know why I say things like that to you.”

He states matter-of-factly, “Because you’re scared and you push me away.”

Now I straighten up. “What?”

“You heard.”

“Yes, I heard. I was exclaiming in disbelief.”

“Don’t give me a lesson now, Marie, okay?”

My heart pounds and travels up into my throat. “I invited you here. How is that pushing you away?”

“I’m your TA? Come on! It’s so obvious to everyone except you that we belong together.”

“Oh, God, Jeffery,” I hide my face with a towel, “Please don’t tell me that we have to run like farm animals because I can’t handle more of this.”

“I’m not saying we have to run anywhere. I’m asking to be with you wherever you are.”

My stomach rumbles, wanting to expel the turkey and stuffing in any way it can. “You know that it won’t work.”

“Would you rather be with Willie?”

I smile. “No.”

“See?” He takes my hand. “I wasn’t lying to your dad when I told him I know what you like. I know your type. It’s me.”

“It’s almost you.”

“How so?”

“It’s you four years from now.”

“Age is just a number.”

“My paycheck isn’t.”

He laughs dryly. One of those brush off laughs. Not one of disbelief. One of finality. Defense. Annoyance. “So that’s it then.” He gives me back ownership of my hand and gets up from the tub. “You know, I didn’t figure it out until now. I know what the problem is.” He develops a swagger in his voice.

I wait for him to continue. I don’t move. I barely breathe.

“All along, I’ve been a novelty for you. I’m not just a student you’re dating. I’m a person, you know.”

It all hits me. He’s so right. I’ve been so . . . I don’t even know. “Yeah, I know.” It’s all I can say.

He nods. “Thanks for dinner. I’m going to go back to the house.”

I hold out an arm. “No, you can stay.” My protest is so weak that even I don’t believe it. “For dessert.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re searching for, Marie. I hope you find it. It’s not Willie Loser and it’s not Weirdo Steeve. Now it’s not me.” He clenches and unclenches his fingers. He lets out another one of those un-laughs. He says “bitch” under his breath. Louder, he says, “Good luck.” It doesn’t sound like he means it.

“Jeffery,” I say.

“See you in class. Pro-fess-or.” He says it as any jerk would say it, emphasizing each syllable to show what our relationship is now. Student and professor. He’s not the jerk in this case.

He leaves the bathroom. Closes the door. I hear him say good-bye to my family. To the oblivious Willie, too. I hear my parents urging him to come again soon. Hopefully, Tony explained to everyone what happened with Steeve. I don’t want to explain more than I have to. I need to leave this bathroom, but I feel trapped. Story of my life: caught in the crapper.

Home Sweet Home

2010-07-08T12:22:00.000-07:00

“Okay, Leah, talk to you soon.” I click off my cell and lean back in the driver’s seat. The windshield fogs up while the defroster refuses to work. My entire car smells like turkey.

I’ve been stuck in traffic for about half an hour. This is beyond frustrating because I can actually see where I have to turn right and go two blocks to be at my parents’ place. The cars in front of me are mocking my lack of progress. The story of my life: stuck with a turkey while my goal lies only inches out of reach.

I called Leah to wish her a happy holiday. She was relieved that I’m still on speaking terms with her. She felt somewhat guilty about urging me to date Steeve after I told her what I had found at his house. She’s the last on the list of people I called to admonish for encouraging me to date the thirty-times-divorced-might-have-offspring-tremble-in-silence-after-sex-Weirdo-Steeve. None of the girls believed me at first. Then they realized that it was all too far-fetched to make up. Leah actually swooned when I told her that I left him in the doorway of his kitchen unconsciously fondling himself and chanting the name of doggie treats. However ugly my man situation gets, I’ll never blame it on a friend, though. I reminded her of the Albert Prick-man/Sophia episode and she felt a lot better.

I also needed one last pep talk before chowing down at my house. My brother warned me that my parents are planning to set me up with some guy my dad met at a golf tournament. Adding to the level of discomfort is Jeffery Rigger’s presence. After learning that he didn’t have the time or money to fly home for Thanksgiving and that his relatives in Jersey weren’t going to be in Jersey, I asked him to have dinner with me and my family. Truth be told, I miss the hell out of him. He “whoo-hooed” for about five minutes straight when I asked. He missed me, too. I told my parents that he’s a TA—-that lie works on anyone.

I’m still panicked about possibly getting canned. Cockknocker was out of the state on conferences for two weeks and hasn’t had any contact with anyone from the department. Not that I’m complaining that she’s been gone. I’d be happy if she never came back. I’m pretty sure everyone would be. However, I’m in limbo, not knowing if she saw the picture of me in Jeffery’s wallet or if she knew it was me in Target. She’s probably seeking out ways to drag it all out to make me suffer. There’s still the possibility that she didn’t catch on at all. Maybe I’m making things up as I go along. The longer she’s away, the more my imagination runs. However, I need to thank God for the break—I’m guaranteed a paycheck for at least another week.

Lastly, Thomas has left me a steady stream of voicemails and emails with the common motif of wondering where I am and when I’ll call. None of his business and not any time soon are the responses I relate in my head. I’ve gotten used to hearing his voice sound small and whimpering on my voicemail. I’ve somehow armored myself against it. I have no urges to pick up the phone out of pity. If only I had this emotional armor sooner; then I probably wouldn’t have had sex with Weirdo Steeve. Ugh—I shiver at the thought. Did I mention that one of his balls is way huger than the other? Yeah, it is. Shudder.

I finally pull up to the front of the house I grew up in. I breathe in. I breathe out. I repeat, despite the poultry odor. My mom comes flying out of the house in her heavy coat. She’s excited about me finally cooking a turkey.

“Mariehoney! You’re home! You’re home!” This reception would make the neighbors think that I’m her long lost child finally Fieveling my way home. I see my parents at least three times a month. It’s hard to break that college habit of doing laundry when you go home, especially when your own laundry room is haunted by a skeevy mustached man named Edgar who blocks the change machine and has gold teeth. No, my mom is not so happy to see me as she is to see visions of me in wedding white with whomever the poor sucker is in the house.

I hoist myself and my turkey out of the car and kisskiss her on the cheek. “Hi, Ma. Happy Turkey Day.” We walk to the house and meet my dad at the door. He’s in a three piece suit minus the jacket. He always defines dapper in his vest. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Gobble gobble,” is his response as it is every Thanksgiving. We kisskiss on the cheeks and I pour myself out of my coat, through the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the living room.

“Hey, ya!” My brother gets up and gives me a half-hug.

“Hey, Tony.” I hand him the trench coat I brought with me. “It came in handy on Halloween. Lost a button. It’s in the pocket.”

“I can’t lend you anything. How am I supposed to get the button back on?” He holds up the coat to assess the damage.

His fiancée hops up off the couch. “Don’t worry, goof. I’ll fix it.” She rolls her eyes.

“Hey, Katie,” I say and give her a huge hug as well.

“Hi.” She pushes her lips up to my ear. “I feel so bad for you. The golf loser is in the office checking email.”

“Golf loser? Thanks,” I say with an exhale of defeat. We separate and I poke my head into my dad’s office to introduce myself.

“Hey there. I’m Marie, Rocco’s daughter.” The back of the head I’m speaking to doesn’t acknowledge that someone else is in the room. Maybe he’s hard of hearing. “Ahem!” I say it like a word instead of pretending to clear my throat. No response. “Yo! You live here?” Nothing.

I poke my head back out into the living room and whisper to Katie, “What’s with this guy? Is he deaf?”

“Weirdo,” Katie and Tony both whisper back.

I throw my arms up, already getting aggravated. “Well, where’s Daddy? Shouldn’t he introduce me?” At this moment, we hear my mom and dad doing what they do best—-smooching.

“Oh, Rocco, we need to cook first!” comes from the kitchen.

“We are cooking, Chenza!”

My brother and I, even after decades of bearing witness to this behavior, both get skeeved. “Ewwww,” we echo each other loudly in the hopes that our parents will hear and cut it out. They never do.

I shake off the ew moment and say, “Okay, I’ll try this one last time,” and stick my head back into the office.

“I’m Rocco’s daughter. Marie. And you are?” I walk behind this golf wonder and put my hand on the back of his chair.

He keeps his head towards the monitor and puts an index finger against the screen in the middle of an email. “I heard you before. I’m just in the middle of reading this. It’s from the club.”

I step away from the chair quickly, suppressing the urge to slap him upside the back of his head. “Oh.” I walk back into my living room and seethe at the happy couple on the couch, “I want him out, now.”

My brother and his fiancée are quite amused. Before I can tell Tony and Katie about the rude interlude, my parents appear, glowing, in the living room. “Soup’s on,” they chime.

Sure, a good-looking woman who is the daughter of his golf buddy won’t tear him away from the computer while the aroma of antipasto will. Golf loser emerges, pasty-white, from my dad’s office. “Great!” He slaps his hands and rubs them together.

My dad puts his arm around me. “Ah, Willie. Have you met my daughter, Marie?” Daddy pushes me towards Willie.

He bows slightly and squints his eyes when he talks. “Yes. A few seconds ago.” He takes my hand in both of his. “Charmed.” He releases my hand only after I try to wriggle it away from him. I am not as charmed as he is. In fact, I’m not charmed at all.

I quickly tear my fingers out of his wimpy grip. “All right, Ma. Let me help you bring stuff out of the kitchen.”

She holds up a finger. “No need. We won’t have the turkey until your little tutor friend gets here.”

I sit, one leg folded under me, a habit I’ve had at my parents’ dinner table my entire life. “He’s a TA, Ma. Not a little tutor friend. His name is Jeffery.” I nudge the chair closer to the table with my folded leg and sit on it.

Mom sits and says, “Very well. Let’s all sit. Willie, why don’t you sit in the empty spot next to Marie?” She points grandly at the chair as if she were one of Barker’s Beauties on The Price Is Right.

For the next half hour of eternity, we eat provolone, salami, and eggplant (because every holiday meal, even Thanksgiving, needs some good Italian antipasto). We listen to Dad and Willie talk about golf swings. Mom chimes in about divots. My brother adds something about spikes and clubs. Katie and I exchange eye rolls and try to change the subject to The Amazing Race which no one else watches. I catch Willie sneer at the mention of reality tv. I definitely see him scowl when Katie and I pop open a bottle of Pinot. He mumbles something about not even eating the main course yet.

Katie hears the mumble too and obnoxiously asks, “Want some wine, Willie!?”

He moves around uncomfortably in his chair. He covers the top of his glass the way people do in restaurants when they don’t want any more coffee. “No, thank you.” He has a vice grip on the glass and doesn’t let go until Katie puts the bottle down.

We toast to The Amazing Race and everyone else moans. We down the wine, and Katie pours seconds. Willie starts mumbling something. Neither of my parents hear him and my mom gives me her “be nice” face when I go to say something back.

I almost pee myself with relief when the doorbell rings. I fling myself out the door, onto Jeffery. “Thank God you’re here.” I can’t hold myself back. It’s good to have an ally against Willie. It’s even better to see Jeffery. It’s been too long.

He catches his balance and yells, “Happy Thanksgiving, Professor.” He hugs me back something fierce, quickly licks my earlobe, and follows me into my house. He takes it all in, nodding at the walls and cabinets. “Nice place.” He’s shaking.

I’m shaking, too. God, I missed this guy. “Thanks. It’s home.” I guide him into the dining room with a death grip on his hand. Now I act like one of Barker’s Beauties, showing him off and saying, “This is Jeffery, everyone.” Only my prize is much better than the one my mom was offering before.

Mom gets up. “Oh, Marie, what a cute little tutor friend you have there.” She then points at Jeffery as if he’s my new teddy bear.

I slap my forehead. “Ma!” I reprimand. “He’s not four!”

Jeffery chuckles and extends a hand to her. “Thanks, Mrs. Roma. Thanks for having me over, too.”

Mom flicks his hand away and gives him a hug. “No bother!”

My dad stands. “Not a bother at all,” he echoes, first shaking Jeffery’s hand and then hugging him too. I see Jeffery take a deep breath and realize, wow, he’s meeting my parents. “I’m Rocco. You can call me Rocco, or Poppa Rocco if you like.”

Mom pipes up. “Yes, and call me Chenza or Mamma Chenza.”

“Chenza?” Jeffery turns to me and asks.

“It’s short for Vincenza,” I explain.

He nods. “Cool.” Then he makes his rounds around the table. He introduces himself to my brother, who is not one for hugging so offers a handshake. Katie also shakes his hand. And, of course, Willie.

“Play any golf there, fella?” Willie asks with a pained expression, having shaken hands with Jeffery who has a firm grip. God, he has great hands. Better than Weirdo Steeve’s by far.

Jeffery pats him on the shoulder. “Golf? No. Never interested me.” Jeffery shrugs.

Willie shakes his head in disappointment. “Shame,” Willie the loser answers, causing an awkward pause.

“Why don’t you sit down, Jeffery?” Katie motions to the seat between Tony and Willie.

“Better yet, I’ll switch with Willie.” I jump into his seat. “Great. Now everyone eat.”

Mom and Dad bring out the turkey and sides while I remain in my chair, forgetting about the suggestion that I help bring out the food from the kitchen, so Willie can’t regain his original seat. Everyone praises my turkey, except for Willie who says that nothing beats a home-cooked meal by his mommy. He uses the word Mommy. I need to have a serious discussion with Poppa Rocco and Mamma Chenza about never, ever bringing anyone home for me from the clubhouse ever again. Ever.

After enduring hours of more golf commentary, lasting until finally my mom got tired of the topic and told the two golf fanatics that they either quit it or get no dessert, we all restore to the living room for football and naps. No one admits that we plan on napping-—we always say we’re really into the game. We inevitably sleep anyway. All except Mom, who clangs pots and trays in the kitchen, insisting that no one help because too many helpers in the kitchen gets nothing accomplished. Willie finds his way back to the office to check his email.

Before my dad falls asleep, he peers around the back of his favorite recliner. “So, how about Willie? He’s got a hell of a handicap.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I grouse. Jeffery covers a laugh at the other end of the couch. He and Katie are watching this exchange as my brother softly snores in the other recliner.

Dad twists half his body around in his chair. “You don’t like him?” Dad’s eyes are wide with amazement. He must have thought he had good taste in men.

I slap the couch cushions. “No, Dad,” I whisper-yell, “I don’t like him. You really shouldn’t try to set me up without telling me.”

He points to the kitchen. “But your mother . . .”

I stop him. “No, no. No buts.”

He stops pointing towards the kitchen. “I’m sure your brother told you beforehand. He always does.” He now points at Tony, who still remains asleep.

I lean forward towards my dad’s chair and hiss, “Tony ratting you guys out doesn’t make it okay.” I’m trying to keep my temper. I always have a short temper when it comes to my parents. I’ve been trying to cool it down in the past few years after hearing stories of the childhoods of new friends. I grew up in a great family, no comparison, while a lot of people I’ve met have had sucky lives from the beginning. So I have no business having a temper. When a guy like Willie pops into the picture, though, I sometimes forget how good I’ve had it.

My dad is still perplexed. “I thought Willie was your type.” Hearing that from my dad is just wrong. Daddy’s don’t set up their little girls.

“No, Dad. I said no buts. Willie Loser is not my type.”

“He’s a loser?”

“Yes, Daddy, he’s a loser.”

My dad is puzzled. He rubs his chin and covers a yawn. Then he lets his gaze fall on Jeffery. “What’s your take, Jeff?”

My hand smacks into my forehead. “Da-a-a-ad!” I’m out of words. How could he possibly be asking my student to rate my love life? Then again, Jeffery is my love life but Dad doesn’t know that.

“What?” Daddy shrugs. “I’m just getting another young man’s opinion.”

Jeffery pushes me aside. “It’s okay, Professor. I don’t mind telling the truth.” Jeffery leans around me. “Not to put down your friend--I work with Professor Roma daily and I know that Willie in there,” he jerks a thumb at the office doors, “probably isn’t her type.”

“Really.” My dad is amazed. He rubs his chin even more. Katie is now asleep.

Jeffery Rigger clears his throat. “Yup. When you see a person enough, you get to know her. I know the Professor pretty well to see that she doesn’t go for guys like that.”

“I see.” My dad nods as if he’s just learned a secret wisdom. “When you say ‘like that,’ you mean . . .?”

Jeffery squints, pauses for a second, and then says, “Loserish. Geekish. Rude.” He sits back.

My dad takes all this into consideration. Then twists practically out of his chair to see me dead on and say, quite sincerely, “Sorry, Marie. I didn’t know he was loserly.”

I uncross my arms and then recross them. “You don’t believe me when I say he’s a loser, but you believe a guy you don’t even know.”

Jeffery puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s a guy thing, Professor.”

My dad guffaws and points at Jeffery. “Yes, that’s what it is, Professor.” He leans back in his recliner whispering something about his daughter being a professor and is out in a minute, his snore joining the chorus of snores coming from Tony and Katie. Only my dad’s is twice as loud.

Jeffery slides his hand across to my other shoulder and I lean back, putting my head on his. “Getting in good with my parents, aren’t you?” I drum his chest with my fingers.

“If I win them over, I have a shot at winning you. Right?”
His voice reaches down into my tinglies. He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. He follows up with, “Or are you awaiting a rebirth of wonder?”

I jump away from him on the couch. “That’s Ferlinghetti!” I point out in a stage-whisper.

“I read Coney Island. After you brought him up that night. I liked it.”

I admit, “I searched for Sorolla. I like his paintings. Reminds me of another painter I like.”

At the same time we say, “Vettriano.” We smile and smolder at each other. I squirm to escape the sensation not only in my tinglies but all over my body. It won’t go away. It dawns on me that I not only want to have lots of sex with Jeffery Rigger, I want to have a whole lot more.

Before I can finalize anything in my own mind, I guess I fall asleep because the next thing I hear is my mom calling my name from the kitchen. Something about a visitor at the door. I stretch and yawn. I get up, praying that the visitor isn’t a planned set up for me in case Willie didn’t work out. Then again, Dad was so sure Willie would be the father of his grandkids, my parents probably didn’t have a Plan B.

Groggily, I call out, “Who is it, Ma?”

A frantic Steeve in the doorway answers my question.

Afterglow

2010-07-01T12:19:00.000-07:00

Post-op: a period of recovery after an operation. Post-partum: a period of time right after a woman has given birth. Post-mortem: after death. Post-coital: the moments of realization that immediately follow a huge mistake. I’m in Steeve’s bed, and, instead of basking in the afterglow, I’m troubled by the aftermath and feel as if I may be entitled to reparations. To make it clear, I slept with Steeve. FINALLY slept with Steeve. The myth of post-coital bliss is far from what I’m feeling. Post-op, post-partum, and even post-mortem would better describe me right now.

Steeve and I set up dinner a few nights after the designer party. We ate at an Italian restaurant for some non-incident pasta. He had a great time. He got all touchy-feely. I got a call from Jeffery Rigger. I escaped to the bathroom and spent a good twenty minutes in there talking to him about repercussions, fear, how he thought it was best if he didn’t meet up with me in public and how I was about to say the same thing. I spent another ten minutes in a stall, trying to shake off a thick layer of guilt.

When I came back to the table with an excuse about a snagged zipper, I couldn’t stop envisioning kissing Jeffery Rigger compared to kissing Steeve, deciding that Jeffery was better at kissing and actually groping and feeling and hitting the spot as well as making me feel like mush inside. Then Weirdo Steeve flooded my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Steeve avoids questions, can’t laugh normally, talks to himself, and has shredded photographs in his now-melted garbage pail.

The shredded pictures made me remember our horrendous date when we wound up sticky and wet in a pile on his dining room floor, which would be good if we had been naked and it had been on purpose, but it was neither of the two. After dinner, I still came to his house, bearing in mind that I was not supposed to be comparing. He kissed me which made me start to forget the oddities. I didn’t know what else to do after the kiss so I slept with him. I thought that’s what I wanted. I thought wrong.

Ten minutes of trying. Ten minutes of waiting for him to clear his mind. Ten minutes of trying. Twenty-three minutes waiting for him to finish up whatever the hell he had to do in the bathroom. I swear I heard him humming the tune of “mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.” Ten minutes of trying. Two minutes of semi-success which I am almost positive was to the rhythm of that same song. I wound up cold and covered in his sweat, as he rolled off to the edge of the bed, trembling. We weren’t allowed to speak to one another. He had to tremble in silence. Then in less than a minute, he lay unconscious.

I should have slept with Jeffery Rigger in my office. Jeez, how unromantic does that sound? Why am I now making up rules? There’s no ‘should have’ to be made here. God, I wish it were Jeffery next to me right now and not, well, anyone else.

I’m in Steeve’s washed-out black Van Halen concert T-shirt from sometime in the eighties. He’s snoring. His back is to me and, although I usually want to be spooned, I’m content being left to myself. This is the perfect chance for me to snoop around. All throughout his grunting and sighing, I heard only the imaginary whirring of a paper shredder. Watch out, Officer Steeve; Inspector Roma is on the prowl.

I tip silently off his bed and sneak out the bedroom door. Everything is black. I can make out dark black from lighter black, and I assume the darker patches are furniture. I feel my way along the wall, sink onto the floor between the coffee table and couch. I light a candle, hoping that I don’t catch the coffee table on fire. I burn my finger; that’s the extent of the peril. I whip out the photo albums Steeve tried to hide behind his big boots the first night I was here. Now I see why he hid them.

Most of the pages are empty. No hint of family or friends. Not even an old pet. Deeper into the album, the aura of Weirdo Steeve begins to emerge. Pictures of him alongside headless women. The heads in the pictures have been cut out. That’s normal break-up reaction. To keep them in an album for posterity is borderline bizarre. Crossing over into completely bizarre is a few pages forward—a collection of all the cut-out heads. Oh, my God, I just slept with Weirdo Steeve. Even deeper in the album, scraps of ripped newspaper articles. Remnants of headlines that seem to have been stuck on the album pages and were torn out with frustration.

There needs to be a good explanation. Maybe he just doesn’t take break-ups well. Has no other way to cope. I close the album and slide it back under the coffee table, making sure no little heads are left behind. As I sneak back out, something catches my eye under the couch. My heart slows with relief. Steeve isn’t weird. He has a box, just like mine. See? This is only remnants of a bitter line of exes. Nothing more. We all cope in our own ways. With this box, Steeve and I have something in common after all. Eventually, he’ll probably get rid of his, too, the way I got rid of mine.

My curiosity is overbearing. It takes over my willpower to just leave well enough alone. I need to see what’s in the box. I need to see the past that Steeve has hidden. All those theories the girls and I discussed—I have to put them to rest with concrete evidence. I pop open the shoe box lid. I wish I hadn’t. More women. These women have heads. They also have veils, bouquets, and bridesmaids. Petite women, much like myself, with long hair and blue eyes. Some blondes, some redheads, mostly brunettes. Steeve decked out in a tux in all of them. Embracing them from behind, with a glass of wine, throwing rice back at the smiling crowd. The joke is on Sophia. Steeve doesn’t have a wife; he’s had a slew of them. Does he pay alimony? Child-support? Does he have kids? Oh, God, he could be reproducing replicas of himself and making them spell their own names wrong.

I keep thumbing through the stacks of photos, interspersed with love poems, wedding vows (Steeve’s seem to be the same for each woman), and copies of marriage licenses. At least six. I wonder where he keeps the divorce papers.

So this is why he never wants to talk about the past. He’s had a rocky road. Bouldery is more like it, even though that’s not a word. I need to not know this. I should have left it all alone. At the very bottom of the box I find the most disturbing picture of them all. The small bride in her veil still has her head. Someone, I’m guessing Steeve, scrawled across the white dress in red marker, “Die Bitch Die”. Over her eyes in green are dollar signs. I drop the picture, put the lid back on the box, blow out the candle, and feel my way to the kitchen. I open the fridge. Using the light of the fridge, I peek into the garbage. The whirring paper shredder in my head was a sign of what will be revealed.

Sure enough, shredded newspaper floats on itself in the pail. I piece together the words alias and scam before the kitchen light buzzes on. I’m under florescent hell as Steeve hangs naked in the doorway. I crane my neck around and snag a bottle of water from the open fridge. “Thirsty?” I wait for the onslaught of weird, mean, not nice Steeve to come at me for snooping around.

Instead, he nods and yawns. “Snausages.” He sits on the floor, snoring, one hand firmly gripping his penis as if it were a cat’s squeeze toy. Steeve is a sleepwalker. A sleeptalker. Could he be a sleep stalker as well?

This is too freaky. Screw not judging. Screw giving it a go. I don’t even like Steeve right now. I want to be out of this twenty-year old T-shirt. I want to take back my faked orgasm. I want to rewind to the day I fell in the rain and refuse any help from this hunky, dimpled man.

I step over Steeve’s hairy limbs, steal into the bedroom, come out fully dressed, and slip out the door, hoping that Steeve has no pictures to remember me by. While I might not win Miss Photogenic at a beauty pageant, I do look a hell of a lot better in photographs when my head is in tact.

~ Academic Interlude~

My favorite Roma—
Don’t let the man get you down. Cocknocker ain’t got nothing on you. I thought you’d enjoy this last test I gave to my basic math class. Hopefully, it will serve as a pick-me-up rather than a reminder of the hopeless hell we work in daily. If you get fired, it’s all for the best. At least you’ll be out of NYLISC!
Cheers—
Matt
PS—I gave this student a D-, for pure creativity….you decide whether or not I’m kidding!

J. Sullivane
Intro to Math
MT 100
Prof. M. Farr
Pop-Quiz

1. Sally is hired at $2 an hour. She works for 40 hours a week for nine weeks. She does not get paid for lunch, which is an hour per day, except for Fridays, during which she does not have a lunch hour. She then works a 41 hour week, all hours over 40 being over-time at time and a half pay. This last week, Sally takes no lunch breaks. Using this information, please find Sally’s hourly rate. Show all work.

Sally gets $4922.58 as an hourly rate. Work below:
$2 an hour = 200.00 X 40 X 9 – 10 + 41 X ½ +10 = 4922.57777 = 4922.58

2. A flight from New York to California is 6 hours long non-stop. A plane uses X gallons of fuel per hour. When the plane lands, 1300 gallons are left. The plane is capable of carrying 4000 gallons of fuel. Using the information above, how many minutes long is the non-stop flight?

I refuse to answer this question on the grounds that I am scared of flying, and I don’t feel it’s fair that you make me answer this question do to the fact that I have had sever trauma experiences while in flight. But if I had to guess, I would say that X = 12. Because 12 is my favorite number and you can’t fault me for that.

3. Patrick buys five reams of paper for $2.99 each. Each ream has three hundred sheets of paper. How much would one sheet of paper cost? Show all work.

To tell you the truth, I didn’t study and I don’t know. But I’ll try.
2.99 X 300 / 2.99 = 300 = $300 for one sheet

4. An American flag consists of 13 stripes. Each stripe is two inches in width. The shortest stripes are five inches long. The longest stripes are ten inches long. What is the perimeter of this particular American flag? Show all work.

Yet again, I must refuse to answer this question based on my First Amendment right to not have to say the Pledge of Alligance if I don’t want to. You cannot prosecute me for my political beliefs.

The Hostess With The Mostest

2010-06-24T12:14:00.000-07:00

“This the infamous box?” Elena circles “the box” in the middle of my living room on her tiptoes, creeping along and peering at all angles. She’s the first to ever see “the box.”

I lean against my counter and pop a grape into my mouth. “Not much, huh?” I’ve mentioned “the box” to everyone. I’ve told all the girls about how I’ve been cleaning it out. And by cleaning out I mean reorganizing stuff inside of it so that it can be eventually disposed of. I guess the aura of “the box” far surpasses the actual box itself. It’s a white cardboard shipping box with a top that doesn’t fit right.

Elena is using my apartment to throw a fashion party to show off her designer friend’s new line of accessories. Of course, Sophia is promoting it, sending cards to all her connections in the industry. Sophia is promoting herself, providing Baked Baskets goodies for the guests. She’s even inviting the top models she has as clients, including hottie David Nellson, who’s still six stories high in Time Square, and has recently appeared on MTV’s TRL.

Elena was going to have the party at her house, but Jack, as usual, has decided to do some remodeling, and their living room has become a construction site. I decided that my apartment is cozy enough for a small party. Of course, I would actually have to vacuum it. Maybe a party would urge me to get “the box” out of my living room. It’s been stationed in front of the couch for about a week. I’m trying to empty it and I thought that if I let it mock me for a while, I would have some success. No such luck. Instead, I’ve been using it as a footrest. When Elena rang my doorbell, I didn’t have time to lug it back into my closet so I decided to show it off.

Elena leans down and touches the lid. “What’s inside? Dirty things?” She raises her eyebrows.

I pop another grape. “More like dusty, ripped papers and pictures. That’s really about it.” I shrug. I’m not really concentrating on “the box” or the party. I’m just waiting for that ill-fated call into the Corporal’s office to be dismissed from my duties once she’s opened Jeffery’s wallet and spotted my shining face he sits on daily.

Elena half lifts it with her foot. “I suppose we should move it into your bedroom unless you want to use it as a jewelry display table.” Elena’s voice trails off as she nudges “the box” towards me with her suede-booted toe.

I wipe grape wetness off of my fingers, hoist “the box” onto my hip, carry it into the bedroom. “What time is it?” I call out, remembering that I have to vacuum and shower before people arrive.

“4:25!” Elena calls back as I reenter into the living room. “Shower. I’ll vacuum.”

She’s a mind reader sometimes. “Thanks! Just be on the lookout for Sophia. She’s getting here early with her baskets.”

* * * * * * * *

No party is complete without the BeeGees. The Brothers Gibb are at high falsetto as the party is in full swing. Hannah Vela’s jewelry, belts, and bags are strewn out across tables around the apartment’s perimeter, sparkling under desk lamp light. Elena and Hannah are selling away to clients from Neiman Marcus, Sophia’s clients, and friends of clients and friends. The apartment is packed, the food is cooking, the wine, vodka, and seltzer are flowing. We’re all “stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.”

Leah pulls me into the kitchenette. “Great turnout for them.” She pops a cube of cheddar into her mouth.

I do the same. “Yeah. She’ll sell a lot. Hopefully to all the right people.” I’m keeping my fingers crossed. Rumor has it that some of the soap stars Sophia’s firm represents will show. Sophia doesn’t know them personally. She spread the word vigorously. There are rumors about my own party! This is crazy.

Leah stares around the room. “So, you’re manless this evening.” She felt somewhat guilty about urging me to date Steeve after the pasta incident, then took credit for the awesome hookup after our last date.

I observe the room as well. “I am. So are you. To no surprise. I’m guessing Robert had to work?” I focus my gaze on her.

She avoids eye contact and concentrates on the cheese cubes. “No. He just couldn’t make it. Family obligations.”

She pops another cheddar cube into her mouth and chases it with sparkling water.

I force her to make eye contact by moving my head around until my nose almost touches hers. “Do you at least have a picture of him?” I know the answer already. The whole mystery of Robert lost its magic for me about a month ago. Now it’s just plain annoying.

She breaks eye contact once more. “No. Sorry. I switched wallets to go with my new purse and now the picture I have doesn’t fit and I have to . . .”

I cross my arms as any NYPD Blue officer would. “A likely story.” I cut her off. Take a swig of my Kaluha and Coke.

She finally makes eye contact on her own. “No Jeffery tonight?”

My heart flutters at the mention of Jeffery. Then my stomach sinks at the thought of Cockknocker ending it all. “No. I’m trying to lay low until I lose my job.”

She tries to make it better. “Oh, you.” Leah throws me some telekinetic sympathy. “You’ve been careful. Even if Cockknocker does put two and two together, you haven’t been unethical about anything. Isn’t Jeffery running a C+ in your class?” True, I have been separating personal from professional. Jeffery can sweet talk me all he likes, still, the work he’s been handing in lately is only slightly above average. He told me that he appreciates that I don’t give him straight A’s because we’re dating.

I eat a few more cubes. “I know. I just don’t know where this can possibly be headed.”

“Watch out for yourself. Keep it to as few people as possible. Let it take you wherever it goes.” She becomes whimsical. “You can’t help what you feel.”

“I know that. Just Sophia and Elena know because they were at The Lair when he asked me out. And just you and Jessica from NYLISC.”

Leah’s eyes get wide. “Speaking of . . .”

“I was just about to say. Have you seen her?”

She shakes her head. “I haven’t even heard from her. I got a quick email about a week ago saying a quick hello and that she’s fine and she’ll explain it all soon.” This is typical Jessica Blessing behavior so neither of us is too concerned yet. Curious though.

An audible gasp permeates the small crowd in my living room. David Nellson fills the open doorway. A few soap stars file in behind him, followed by a few new-to-the-scene runway gals. I stand tall in my little frame and make my way over to meet and greet. Leah does the same.

Sophia beats me to the punch and starts introductions. David gives her a hug that lasts longer than a friendly hug usually does and kisses my cheek. “Thanks,” he says apropos of nothing.

I tag along behind Sophia until she finally turns off her PR mode to ask me for a rum and Coke. Leaning on each other, we weave back to the kitchen. Leah has found interest in a young runway model who liked her dress.

“David Nellson becomes the life of the party.” We both watch him. “He’s even hocking your baskets.” He holds up Sophia’s candies and makes a show of enjoying them.

Sophia sets her eyes on him dreamily. “Yup,” is all she can muster as a response.

“Is Kenneth coming?”

“Nope.” She keeps her eyes on David. “We won’t be seeing much of him.”

“What are you talking about?”

She tears her eyes away from the uber-model and sets her glass down on the counter between us. “Whatever born-in-a-suit and I had? We no longer have.”

I step back. “Oh. Are you okay? I mean. Well.” I step closer and hug her shoulders.

Sophia nods. “I’m fine.” Her gaze finds the hunky man with the baskets across the apartment. “How could I not be fine?” I don’t detect any upset hidden in her voice. She’s been over Kenneth for a long time.

Before I can ask if this break has anything to do with Kenneth turning red, Elena pops up with a fistful of cash. “Can I put this in your bedroom? For safe keeping?” She’s flushed with happiness for Hannah.

“Of course.” We totter off into my bedroom leaving Sophia semi-entranced with her new lover.

Elena crams the money into a strong box and hugs me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you for your apartment and your contacts and your, your, oh, just thanks!”

I hug her back. “No problem, sweetie. Only, my contacts are Leah and Sophia. The rest of these people are here through you and your store, so don’t thank me for that.”

“Who cares? This is wonderful!”

A rap at the door makes us both jump and knock our heads together. I yell, “Come in!” making sure to hide the strong box. I almost faint. Not from the body heat of over thirty people in my small place, not the liquid ounces of Kaluha, only from the fact that Steeve materializes in my bedroom with a bottle of wine in his hand.

“I know we haven’t set plans since our last date. I reckoned your mention of the party was invitation enough.”

His naked chest flashes through me. I hear his voice calling me irresistible. I gather myself and respond, “Oh. It’s fine,” hoping I didn’t pause too much. Elena nudges me forward. I mumble, “oh, right,” to no one in particular and kiss Steeve. “Good to see you.” I step back and motion for Elena. “Elena, Steeve. Steeve, Elena.”

I usher them out of the room and bump into Leah. She gives Steeve a half hug and then sings into my ear “love the one you’re with.” She dances away amused before I can push her.

I spend the rest of the night with Steeve nearby. He chit-chats with the models and actresses. He has some guy talk with the husbands of the women who are regulars at Neiman Marcus. I weigh in my head the pros and cons of another date. I keep in mind the months it’s been since I’ve gotten any sex and that I’m not getting any from Jeffery and that I might not even have the chance soon. I might not have a job for that matter. I try to remember all that was wrong with Steeve and I have a hard time coming up with anything. I pick up my glass of ice water, saunter over to Steeve, and sway with him to the mellow gold Marvin Gaye.

When all is said and done at 2:45 in the AM, when the last guest has left, and the last shimmery belt has been packed away, after Steeve has tongued me farewell and Sophia clung to David Nellson on her way outside, when Leah has gone to see Robert before going home and Hannah has hopped in her car, and after Elena has hugged me and thanked me and left with Jack loving her even more, I sit in my bedroom, a dull humming in my ears reminiscent of the din of a great party. I open “the box” one last time.

I have a date with the no-longer-weird Steeve. I have a courtly lover on my mind who’s wiser beyond his 20 years. I have talented, witty friends. I just threw a party complete with rumors and celebrities. I have reasons to smile without needing to count out those reasons. I simply know they’re there.

I drop the box out the window into the dumpster below. I don’t even say good-bye.

Target Shooting

2010-06-17T12:09:00.000-07:00

I’ve never considered shopping a date so even if we were dating, this still would not count as a date. We’re not dating anyway. Just hanging. I mean, if we were dating, he would at least be calling me Marie—he still calls me Professor. It’s really endearing, actually. We’ve tried the Marie thing, and it just felt weird. Jeffery doesn’t agree. He’s even a little pissed; he’s very quiet and starting to get the talk-to-myself-even-when-someone-else-can-hear Steeve syndrome.

I’m trying not to emit the glow of having been partially naked with Officer Muscles-To-Die-For. I’m also trying not to emit the ooze of guilt in having had a romp with someone other than Jeffery Rigger. I always want to tell the wrong people the most inappropriate secrets. Jeffery Rigger and I have agreed to not tell each other about other hookups. I’m having a hard time not saying anything about Steeve. He’s winning me over big time. The only time I honestly want to call the whole thing off is when I see Jeffery Rigger. Jeffery Rigger’s flattery. Jeffery Rigger’s humor. Jeffery Rigger’s tongue ring and thumb ring. Jeffery Rigger’s ease in being with me and how I feel as if I’ve never not known him when he’s there.

As I attempt not to give away any of my backseat secrets, I’m also searching for a parking space in Target. Jeffery Rigger is mumbling to himself.

“Everything all right?”

“Fine! Just fine! Even downright dandy, Professor!” He slaps his knee and stares out the window, creating fog on the glass. “Look, baby feet,” he adds in a lighter tone. He pushes the side of his fist against the window. His imprint resembles a tiny baby foot.

“You’re not acting like yourself. Something on your mind?” I swerve into a spot which seems half a mile from the entrance. We’re hiking it in the cold to the store.

“Who am I acting like then?” The wind kicks up and blows his snotty attitude my way.

He’s acting the way Steeve behaved on our fiasco date. However, Jeffery doesn’t want to know the details of my man situation. “You’re acting like a jerk.” I settle for the generic description. He doesn’t answer. Then I remember, he’s only twenty. I should give him a break now and then. Plus, I’m still shaken from confessing this whole thing to Leah, and that’s not his fault. “Sorry. That was kind of jerky of me myself.”

He stands aside and lets me through the doors first as we duck through the entrance and are bombarded with hot air. “No. I should apologize. You’re right. I’m not acting like myself. Got some stuff going on.” He disappears down the card aisle and I move to the other side to check out the wrapping paper.

My stomach sinks. I remember back to when I was a college freshman. “Stuff going on” meant one of two things: a psychotic roommate who left half exploded ketchup packets in your sock drawer and brushed her teeth with your toothbrush, or a love/lust problem. Suddenly, my chest is in a panic, What if . . . a hand on my shoulder breaks my train of thought when a baritone voice says, “Hey, sugar.”

I whirl around, expecting Jeffery to be there with a candy cane. I suck in a gasp that makes my head float off my neck.

“Hey, Steeve. How are you?” I jump to my tiptoes and give him an over-dramatic hug as if I he’s an old friend I haven’t seen in years. I wonder if he still has that amazing hard on. When I let go, I peer around him to find Jeffery. This is not good.

“I’m good, good. What are you up to?” He swings his little red shopping basket back and forth, feigning innocence. He’s obviously proud of himself for our backseat rendezvous.

My heart races. “Nothing.” I continue to peer around him. I’m looking everywhere except at him. “Shopping.” I swing my basket too, a bit too forcefully, and I catch him right in the crotch.

He lets out a yelp and keels forward, growing red. He ekes out, “Oh, Marie!” at a high pitch.

“What’s going on?” Jeffery appears out of nowhere, frantic with his arms up for battle. “He annoying you, Professor? Is this your ex?”

Steeve is stunned. He mouths the word, “Ex?”

“Oh, no. Um, accident. Crotch. NYLISC.” I become a sputtering idiot.

“Not an ex.” Steeve gasps out. His head is bright red.

“This is Steeve.” I rub Steeve’s back. “I’m so sorry.” Then to Jeffery—“Steeve is the guy I’m seeing. I hit his balls.”

“On purpose?” Jeffery asks half-jokingly.

“No!”

Steeve takes a last deep breath and finally comes back to a healthy peach. “I’m better. Thanks.”

This moment defines awkward. We just shift in each other’s presence. So I do what any normal person would. “Steeve, this is Jeffery. He’s a, a, um . . .”

“TA!” Jeffery fills in the blank.

“Yes, teacher’s assistant. We’re, um,”

“Getting office supplies.”

“Yes, and cards.”

“Yes, cards.” Jeffery holds up a birthday card with balloons and dinosaurs on it. “May as well get in some personal shopping on corporate time.”

Steeve pumps his fist, “Damn the man!” Then squeezes my upper arm. “Want to get together soon?” His fingers linger on my sleeve. So damn sexy all of a sudden.

“Strongly possible. Call me.”

“We’ll try for some pasta. Round Two.” He flashes his dimples at me. “Nice meeting you. Quite a loyal student you are.” He nods at Jeffery who nods back. Then Steeve kisses me and disappears. He’s taller than Jeffery, wider than Jeffery, tanner than Jeffery, older than Jeffery, and has longer fingers, stronger hands.

“Officer Steeve, I presume?” Jeffery is still holding up the big boy birthday card. Jeffery is smarter than Steeve.

"Yup. You don’t remember him from Halloween?”

“It was dark in there. He’s not in his uniform today. Unless his street clothes are his costume now.” Jeffery Rigger smirks bitterly.

“Quit it, you. I am seeing the man.”

“Seeing or dating?” We saunter into the card aisle and browse the kiddie birthday cards. Jeffery’s cousin’s son is turning five.

I mumble, “I don’t know what you would call it.”

Jeffery spits, “Just like you don’t know what to call what we’re doing.” That’s not a question. I knew that was bugging him. I can’t be dating a student. It’s just not possible. Plus he’s a freshman. That’s just unheard of. Absurd. How could I possibly fall for him? “I’ll take your silence as agreement,” he says, using my own line on me.

I hate it when that happens. “I don’t know what to say.” At least I’m honest.

“Aw, Professor, I make you speechless.” I become a statue as he lays one on me. His lips are better than Steeve’s. My body melts. I’m infatuated. Right here in Target, I have an orgastic epiphany. The realization that Jeffery Rigger is more than a student in my Comp I class, and when he says Professor, it’s more than just a title.

I have no time to let this revelation sink in. Jeffery jerks me around a rack of women’s sweaters. He pushes my head behind the 50% clearance sign. I pucker up. Hey, I could get used to this new level of passion. It’s not dirty at all. I don’t feel one bit guilty. My lips meet his armpit.

“Keep your head down!” he stage-whispers at me, pushing me behind the sign. He curls over me, checking sizes on the cable knits.

Then I hear it. The voice of evil. “Over here, Sharon. The women’s are across from the cards. Here. No, here.”

I squat down, practically climbing under the display rack. Then I see the ugly shoes. These are pink pumps. Also scuffed. Cockknocker’s ruin-everyone’s-fun radar is on target as usual. She’s three feet away from us. Jeffery must have seen her walk through the doors. He’s been in my office when she’s dropped off meaningless memos and when she’s given me work to do that really isn’t my job like copying flyers for the softball team fundraiser or for Halloween candygrams that she stole from the leftovers in the History Department. He hates her, too.

Now I feel the guilt I should have felt five minutes ago in that heavenly liplock. My pits are sweating. Sweat drips between my breasts, through my bra, down my stomach, pooling in my belly button. Oh, God, she saw, she saw, she saw. I’m caught, I’m caught, I’m caught.

I stumble in my squat—this is not the easiest position to hold in heels. I bump my head into Jeffery’s knees. He pushes me back up and puts his hand on my head. He shushes me even though I am not making any noise. Maybe my heart really is that loud—it’s pounding in my ears but maybe everyone can hear it too. That’s the sound of my career heading south. That’s the sound of Steeve finding out about the guy I’d rather be with if I could only bring myself to admit it. Wow—I just did. Saying it out loud would make it real. For now, it’s not. Now is not really the time.

“Sharon! Sweaters! Sale!” Now is so not the time for alliteration either. Who the hell is Sharon? Cockknocker actually has friends?

Jeffery leans into me further, hiding my entire body under his coat hanging from the crook of his arm. I lift the hem, trying to glimpse this Sharon person. For this, I get kneed in the ear. Then my blood boils as I listen to her conversation with the stranger.

“. . . and they’re so immature! I mean, how unprofessional to laugh so loudly. Oh, that Gattlin woman—I am so glad she switched departments. Don’t get me started on that other artsy psychological mutant. They all deserve each other . . . .” I don’t hear what the Sharon woman replies because I’m busy plotting the Cockknocker’s destruction. I bite my lip until I taste blood. I want to kill her.

Her shoes get closer and Jeffery pushes me down further until . . . “Hi, Professor Clepper.” Oh, my God. This is it. This is the end. I want to die.

“Hi.” The voice isn’t joyful. It’s confused. She doesn’t really know any of the student body. They don’t hang out in her office. They don’t run to sign up for her classes. They don’t like her—just like the department. “Harry, right?”

“Yup. That’s me. How are you?”

“Good. Shopping.”

“Yup. Me too. Harry likes to shop.” I hit him in the knees. He knees me back.

“Very well.” She’s flustered. She’s been exposed to the general population of NYLISC. It’s too much for her. “Sharon. Over there. Pots!” I see two sets of shoes move away rather quickly, clicking over the tiled floor.

I tug on Jeffery’s pant leg and whisper, “Let’s get out of here before more unexpected guests show up.”

Jeffery huddles over me as if I’m a criminal being shielded from the media and escorts me to the door. Then we stop dead in our tracks as we hear the shrill voice.

“Harry! Is this yours?” Pink pumps clack on the dirty white tile.

The stage-whisperer pushes me on. “Just go, just go.”

The clacking speeds up. We speed up. The voice shrieks, “Harry?”

We pass the motion detector, slip through the automatic sliding doors, and run into the parking lot. I fumble for my keys, unlock the doors, and fall into my car. Jeffery slides across the hood, Dukes of Hazard style, and rips open the passenger side. I back up, burn out, and hop onto the highway.

“Oh, my God! Can this day get any more hectic?” I peek over at Jeffery. He’s panicked. “What? Don’t worry. I don’t think she figured out it was me.” He remains quiet, shifting his coat over his lap. “I owe you one.”

He grumbles, “Shit.”

“Shit what?” I peer into my rearview, expecting too see Cockknocker tailgating us. I slump down just so low that I can see an inch above the steering wheel.

“Harry lost his wallet in Target.”

“Oh, shit,” I echo.

“Yeah. Now Clepper has a wallet that belongs to Harry with Jeffery Rigger’s ID in it.”

I pat his thigh. “So, you lied to her. Big deal. You could say you were saving face, with her calling you the wrong name.”

He puts his hand on mine. “Um, Professor, you don’t understand.” My heart jumps to my ears. My pits are pumping sweat. First Steeve, then Cockknocker. What could be worse? “There’s a picture of you in there.”

“A what?” My head snaps in his direction. The car goes in the same direction. I swerve back with an “Ack!”

“Careful! Don’t kill me just yet!” Jeffery exclaims in an attempted joke.

I return my eyes to the road. “Kill you yet? What the hell? What’s in your wallet again?”

“A picture of you.” He actually repeats it as if I really didn’t hear him. He adds, “And one of our emails.”

“Why?” I’m not annoyed. I’m not confused. I know why. I ask anyway, hoping that the answer he’ll give is not the answer I already felt in the kiddie card aisle of Target.

“Because, Professor, I like looking at you when you’re not around.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him blushing. He continues, “Professor Roma, I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Oh.” I say it as in, oh, is that all? Just a little bout of love? I mean it as oh, oh my God, oh, wow, holy shit, oh. I don’t say any more. I pat his knee. He smirks. Then I run a red light and get pulled over for a moving violation. The officer’s uniform reminds me of Steeve. My tinglies long for the guy sitting next to me instead.

Coming To Terms

2010-03-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

I don’t give tests to my classes. So when mid-semester hits, students get all confused. They ask, “So we’re not having a midterm?”

I say, “No.”

They say, “So we don’t have a test in here.”

I say, “No.”

They ask, “So when we have tests in other classes, we don’t have one in this class?”

I say, “No.”

They ask, “So what are we going to do then?”

I say, “Have a class.”

They ask, “Not a test?”

I ask, “Do you want me to give you a test?”

Then they go into an uproar and holler about how they can’t have another test and they have too many other ones to study for. So I say, “Then stop asking me about tests. You’re putting ideas into my head.”

They settle down. I teach. They learn. Hopefully.

~Academic Interlude~
Mid-Semester Student Evaluations for Professor Roma

1. This course should not be mandatory. When will I EVER need to know how to write?
2. The book is idiotic but the porfesor is cool.
3. Pro. Roma is the best!!!
4. I hate this class. I hate this teacher. She trats us like we don’t got nothing better to do than to do work for her class. I can all ready write good.
5. Challenging but good.
6. Too hard. Too much work. Why should we write so many essays?
7. The school needs to have more flowers and bushes outside to make it pretty.
8. Miss Roma is a tough teacher. But she nice to.
9. Cafateria food is way too much money.
10. The course helps me to learn writting in a expository form. Only problem was too many essays. Maybe 4 would do.
11. My only course that was actually like college. Challenging. I really had to use my mental capacity to its fullest.
12. She is well educated.
13. I like cheese.
14. A pleasure to be with.
15. At first I didn’t like this class but it’s okay.

Dinner At Seven

2010-03-21T09:46:00.000-07:00

“You’ve heard of Sorolla?” Jeffery’s left eyebrow goes up.

“I’ve only heard of him. I wouldn’t know his work. Ferlinghetti mentions him in A Coney Island of the Mind.”

“Who’s Ferlinghetti?”

“You know Sorolla but you don’t know Ferlinghetti?”

“You know Ferlinghetti but you don’t know Spanish Impressionist painters?” He winks. I never tire of that wink.

“You’re bringing up Spanish Impressionism because you want to brag about how you’ve been to Spain.”

“You’re bringing up Ferminjetti to sound smart.”

“Ferlinghetti!”

“Exactly.”

Jeffery Rigger and I have finished some very bad food and have listened to some very bad jazz. Only this time, we also had some great conversation, some hand holding, no awkward moments. The same bad jazz man does his whole kicking the cymbals routine. Thankfully, the diva of a waiter we had last time is not here. Instead, we have a female server who has black eye liner caked around her eyes.

I have apologized for what happened the night before. Jeffery waved it off. Instead, he took to making fun of Steeve for wearing his work uniform as a Halloween costume. Then he asks me, “Seriously, what do you see in that guy? He doesn’t watch your favorite show. He doesn’t get your sarcasm. He’s a big buffoon.”

I roll my eyes and say, “Come on. He’s not that bad. I do have a pretty good time with him.” I convince myself that I sound convincing. I can’t possibly tell Jeffery Rigger that the main reason I go out with Steeve is that Steeve has a rockin bod and his moments of charm are incredibly endearing. Instead I say, “Can we please not talk about other people we date because it’s weird?”

Jeffery Rigger finishes off his drink. “You got it.”

We go for a long drive and a longer make-out session in the backseat of his car. Fortunately for me, neither of us has a condom, so I don’t have to have that inevitable rationalization fight with myself. We skip the sex, he drives me to my car, and we drive off our separate ways. Two nights in a row, I go to bed with a Jeffery Rigger induced smile.

********************************************

The next day at work, Steeve finds me in my office as I’m filling out a plagiarism report for Cockknocker. Brenda is also in my office, having to fill out a similar report since she was witness to the interrogation. We debated including our glimpse of Kalise’s nipple. Decided against it. Cockknocker most likely would not see the humor in it.

“Steeve, what’s up?” I remain in my seat. So does Brenda.

“Just wanted to apologize for running off the other night. Let me make it up to you.” He whips out a bouquet of five black roses from behind him.

I exclaim, “How apropos!”

“I presumed you’d still be in a bewitching mood.” His teeth dazzle. His dimples mesmerize. He holds the roses out farther towards me. “Have dinner with me,” he implores in an imitation of an old black and white flick.

I reach across my desk with a shaky hand. I’m all mush. “Seven o’clock?” I suggest.

“Yup!” He gives me a thumb’s up when he lets go of the flowers. Then he motions to Brenda. “Dinner tomorrow?” he jokes. That’s why I like Steeve.

Brenda gives him a thumbs down. “Nope!”

He squeezes her shoulder. I see her melt. Steeve tells me he’ll meet me outside. Blows me a kiss. Bows out the doorway.

I barely wait until he’s out of earshot to tell Brenda, “See? It’s moments like that that make me like him. Why can’t he be like that all the time?”

“Because sometimes his confidence is on and sometimes it’s not. Today?” she fans herself and slides down in her chair, “he’s definitely on.”

I cling the roses to me. “The hands, right?”

“Oh God, the hands!” she exclaims.

I search around my shelves for something to put the flowers in. I’m still shaking. “It’s a toss up between his hands, his dimples, his teeth, and his ass. All so sweet,” I croon.

Brenda sits back up and directs her attention to the report. While she makes more notes, she shakes her head, “I don’t know, Marie. All that and charming, too. You’ve gotta hold onto him.”

I give up my search. Tack the flowers upside down to dry against my bulletin board. “Sure, that’s all great. He’s got his odd moments also.” Right now, I can’t come up with any though. I say so.

“That’s what happens when you date,” Brenda says matter-of-factly. “You get comfortable. The weirdness goes away or you stop dating.” She signs off on her report with a flourish. “Done!” She passes it to me. “You can give it to Cockknocker.”

“Thanks a lot!” I take it and throw it on the desk.

**************************************

Steeve and I are mid-way through salad when he asks, “Did you ever find out who was in the president mask?”

I shudder, hide a smirk. I fight off the tinglies. “No. How could I? Spent the rest of the night with you.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He takes in a heaping portion of lettuce.

“Where did you head off to afterwards?”

He finishes his mouthful and answers, “Afterwards? I had stuff to do.”

I ask, “Stuff?”

“Stuff? Stuff. Yes. Stuff. Nothing important.”

We finish dinner with a lot of real conversation. More about his friend Michael and their other friend Bad Ass Stanley. He tries to show me how to whistle, which is a lost cause.

Randomly, he says, “I’m glad you liked the roses. I was afraid you wouldn’t get it.” He twirls the garnish on his plate.

“Are you kidding,” I say a little too loudly, “I thought they were fabulous.” I stare at him until he makes eye contact. I tell him, “You need to stop being scared of me judging you. I like you best when you’re you.”

“Me too,” he says. “I mean, I like you when you’re you, too.” He covers his eyes. “I’m making no sense. You know what I mean, right?”

“Right,” I say.

He offers me the parsley from his plate. “A second bouquet for the lady.”

I take it, laughing. “Such a gentleman.” I sneak the parsley into my bag. A trinket of his sweetness, the good part of his quirkiness. I’ll hang it near the black roses.

He walks me to my car and says, “I would ask you back. My place is a mess.”

I say, “Okay, maybe next time.”

He says, “See? I can be a normal person on a date.”

I say, “Yeah, no incidents this time. We’re improving.”

He says, “I just lied about my place being a mess. I’m just trying to not fuck up too much here.”

I put my head against his chest. “You’re doing all right. I mean, we didn’t wind up tripping over each other at the Halloween ball.”

He puts his fingers through my hair. “True.”

“So we’re doing better.”

“Yes we are,” he says. Then he kisses me quickly. “Thanks for hanging in. Sometimes I’m not so good at this dating stuff.”

You’re telling me. I say, “No one really is.”

He smiles. I smile. I have a real moment with Steeve. Steeve has a real hard-on with me. We climb into my car. I speed around to the back parking lot. We make out in my car. The last time I made out in the backseat of a car was—-oh, wait, it wasn’t all so long ago. Still, this is nice. Steeve’s hands are nice along with all other things Steeve. When he says, “God, you’re irresistible!” I know at least part of my dream has come true.

Halloween

2010-03-14T09:37:00.000-07:00

Slumped into the dippity-doo chairs across from my desk are a slutty nurse and a slutty devil. I’m guessing. The blonde, LisaAnne, is decked out in strappy white stilettos, white fishnets, a white leather mini-skirt, and a white bustier. A tiara that she probably bought at the 99 cent store lays askew on top of her blonde curls. She’s attached a small red cross on the front of it, which leads me to believe she is trying to be a nurse and not, let’s say, a slutty angel or just a slut who likes to wear white after Labor Day. Her hair is the only cover her shoulders have. Her skin, usually porcelain, leans towards light blue. Her feet shake uncontrollably, tapping heel-toe-heel-toe against the floor. Nerves, chill, both.

The brunette, Kalise, has also slid on some strappy sandals, ones with a chunky heel about two inches high. They’re black. Her fishnets are red. Her mini is black. Her camisole is red. Her bra, which is sticking out higher than the camisole is red lace. Her nipple is pink. I know this because what I’m quite sure is a nipple (as I have them myself) is peeking out of her bra. I’m trying not to look. I don’t want to stare at her boobs. But they’re so pushed up and so right there that it’s hard not to at least peek. In that peek, I’m almost positive that I caught sight of nipple. Which indicates that she, too, is quite chilly.

Behind them, Brenda Dunick from the department acts as a witness for me if I need to bring the matter to the dean. I’m done with going through the department chair because I would be crazy to voluntarily deal with Cockknocker.

I avert my eyes from the blatant boobage that Halloween now gives girls license for during class hours and flick through a pile of papers. The ladies sink lower into the uncomfortable chairs. The only sound is the light tapping of LisaAnne’s shoes and rustling papers. They are anxious. I know that they know that I know they cheated off of one another. So I give them a chance to come clean.

Without looking up from my meaningless search through papers, I ask, “Does either one of you want to tell me anything about the last assignment you handed in?” I shuffle and reshuffle papers meaninglessly. I then reach over, grab their papers that I had already set aside, and place them in front of me, making sure all the edges line up.

One of them says, “um.” The other says, “what?” I’m not sure who gave which response. I ask again, head down, “Do you want to say anything to me about your assignment?” I had given my women’s lit class an essay assignment—-they had to analyze one of two stories by Kate Chopin in terms of love, lust, and marriage. Incredibly, incredibly simple. You don’t even have to read an entire story to write a half-decent response. However, not only did these girls not read, they also didn’t write very well. They copied each other’s answers word for word.

Then one asks, “What do you mean? I handed it in.”

The other one says, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Finally, I pick up my head, steering clear as best I can from Kalise’s areola area, and say, “Well, we need to talk about it. Can either of you explain to me who Katie Chopping is?”

Kalise answers my question with a question: “What do you mean?” An exact replica of her previous answer sans the clarification that she had handed in her paper.

LisaAnne remains silent so I ask her, “Do you understand the question?”

She nods.

I ask, “Can you then answer it please? Who is Katie Chopping?”

“Uh, ye-uh!” She raises her voice at the end as any valley girl would. Too bad we’re over 3000 miles away from the valley and about two decades beyond valley girl. “She wrote that story we had to read.”

“What story was that?” I ask, ignoring the attitude.

“The Sto-orm.” She crosses her arms. They have goosebumps all over them and tiny hairs are all standing on end.

“You read the story?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Ye-uh.” She uncrosses and recrosses her arms, her feet tapping away.

I confront Nipple. “Did you read ‘The Storm’ by Katie Chopping as well?”

She nods. “Yup. Whole thing.”

“Then you both wrote about that story?”

“Uh, ye-uh! You would know that if you read the papers!” Now Nurse LisaAnne is crossing a line. So I automatically meet her on her level.

“Well, like, I did read the papers, and that’s why I’m asking you questions about it. So, like, can you tell me why you both managed to make the same exact mistake in calling the writer Katie Chopping when her name is Kate Chopin?” I cross my arms, lean back in my chair, and tap my feet on the ground to wait for a response.

LisaAnne adjusts her tiara, pouting. Nipple follows suit, sliding her devil horns off and back onto her head. Thankfully, her nipple slides back down into the bra when she brings her arms down.

Kalise now ventures to answer. “I thought that was her name.”

“So did I!” LisaAnne agrees.

I lean forward across my desk and calmly ask, “Did you also both think in the exact same way to write the exact same words in the exact same order for the entire essay?”

LisaAnne sinks lower and mumbles, “It could happen.”

I smirk. “You’re telling me it’s possible for two people to write the exact same paper word for word without ever looking at each other’s papers.”

“Ye-uh!”

Brenda, behind them, stifles a laugh.

“How about you, Kalise?”

The devil is confused. Flustered. Breaking a sweat even though she’s chilled to the bone. She offers a meek, “Maybe.”

“Okay, how about this,” I clap my hands together, “although in some strange universe of possibilities that could happen, I’m here to tell you that it did not happen here. The two of you cheated. One of you wrote this and the other copied it. I don’t care who did what because no matter what end you’re on, you cheated. It’s called plagiarism.”

Kalise’s eyes fill up. She quickly stares out the window. LisaAnne remains indignant. “We didn’t cheat.”

I finally hold out the two identical papers. “It’s word for word.”

LisaAnne shakes her head. “No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“No. That’s it. No.” She goes back to crossed arms.

Now I start to second guess myself. This girl in this slutty nurse uniform is so friggin sure of herself and so friggin defiant. I wonder if it really is possible that they didn’t cheat. I mean, it certainly could happen in the world of theory.

I glance over at Brenda whose eyes are wider than I ever thought possible. She’s as bewildered as I am. She shrugs.

Before I sink further into doubt, Kalise comes clean. “Stop it, Lis, you’re making it worse.” She shoots LisaAnne a devilish sneer and then aims weepy eyes to me. “Professor, you don’t understand. We didn’t get it so we worked on it and then that’s what we got from it.” She points at the papers with a black and red acrylic nail.

“If you don’t understand something, what are you supposed to do?”

“Go to you for help?” She lets her arm drop.

“Right. You didn’t. Instead, you both handed in the same essay, believing I wasn’t going to catch on.” Maybe I wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for the Katie Chopping error. Sometimes I skim the essays and read more in depth if something odd catches my eye. In this case, Katie Chopping was a red flag.

LisaAnne comes out of her silent coma to ask, “So are you gonna fail us?”

I answer, “I don’t fail anyone. You just failed yourselves.”

“Fine then whatever!” LisaAnne jumps out of her seat. “Fail me. Whatever. Whatever.” She makes for the door. Kalise, silently, pops out of her chair, boobs on the verge of popping out all over, and follows. Only she mumbles, “Sorry, professor.”

I call out, “Don’t apologize to me. Just learn from it.”

When they clear out, Brenda pipes up, “I don’t know how you kept it together.” Then she starts laughing, “That girl had you going for a minute! She had you convinced that they wrote the same thing by coincidence!” She laughs harder, tears rolling.

I lightly tap her in the arm. “It’s not that funny, Bren.”

She stops momentarily. Then she bursts out, “Yes it is! I can’t wait to tell everyone!”

I sigh in mock defeat and say, “If you don’t stop laughing for five minutes to change, you’re going to miss your chance. Everyone is waiting for us, I’m sure.” The college faculty and staff have a huge masquerade ball on Halloween. They call it a ball; I call it a crappy get-together with lukewarm punch. Thankfully, there’s also alcohol.

She catches her breath and wipes away the tears from her high cheekbones. “You’re right.”

I sigh. “Another two students who’ll complain about me at semester’s end.”

Brenda waves away the comment. “For every two who despise you, there are two who love you. You know your classes are a hot property for some.”

“Hell for others.”

“We can’t win em all. My costume is in my office. Meet you out front?”

I nod. “You got it.”

Brenda leaves and I open the closet in my office. I’m sure we haven’t missed much at the ball yet. However, I’d like to get there soon, so I take down the Public Safety hat from my closet, put on a trench coat that I borrowed from my brother, and grab my purse. Steeve thought it was a good idea to have me wear his uniform. I opted for just his hat since he’s twice my size. I’m not sure how he’ll react when he sees me in just the hat, but I couldn’t see going through the bother of having to explain to him why wearing the entire uniform just wouldn’t work.

*********************************************

Dracula is popular this year. Brenda in her pilgrim outfit and I in my Public Safety hat scope out Norma and Jerry from the huge crowd. Jerry is Dracula. Norma is Dracula. “Dracula’s wife,” she corrects.

“Did Dracula have a wife?” I ask.

“Who cares?” Jerry answers. “I seem to have one here tonight!”

Norma mocks him, “Don’t let your wife hear you say that! She won’t feed you anymore.”

Math Department Matt Farr finds us and hold out his wrists to me. “You gonna take me in, Sheriff?”

“Nah, I’ll let you go this time.” I push him away. He’s dressed as Dracula. “Were Dracula capes on sale?”

Matt adjusts his cape, shines his whiter-than-white teeth at me and says, “All my other costumes were highly inappropriate,” he laughs, making our inside joke come out, also hinting at the truth. I’ve seen some pictures of him from Halloween’s past and a condom costume as well as being a streaker are not appropriate at work-related events.

Norma Wife of Dracula pipes up, “I don’t even want to hear it!”

I agree with her, “You’re right, you don’t.”

I search around for a kitty cat (Leah) and Frida (Jessica). No sign of them. I do catch sight of Roger Gregan from EdPsych and Larry More the Spanish professor. They saunter over, Roger in a Dracula costume and Larry as a hippie in an oversized tie-dyed shirt, thin head band, and yellow-tinted glasses.

Pilgrim Brenda enters our little circle before we even get to say hi to each other, and says, “It’s so sickly sweet to see all the youngins together!”

“Gag me!” Larry yells.

“We ain’t that young!” Roger pipes up.

“Speak for yourself!” Kitty Kat Leah has found us just in time to defend her age.

I give her a hug. “Where’s Jess?”

She points to the bar. “Where else?” Jessica balances a tray of tiny shot glasses in an attempt to cross the room. Whenever the young faculty gets together, we toast to each other.

Jessica, complete with a Frida unibrow, arrives with a tray of Sweet Tart shots. The six of us toast to each other. We mingle, mix, make fun of everyone else. Jessica tells us the student story of the day: she went in her costume to her art class at another school where she adjuncts and they thought she was being a caveman with the unibrow instead of Frida Kahlo.

“I see that they pay a lot of attention to your lectures there too,” Roger jibes.

I’m not sure how much time has gone by when I remember that I still haven’t seen Steeve. I poke Leah’s arm, ask if she’s seen him.

She shakes her head. “No. I was wondering if you cared where he was.” She giggles.

I roll my eyes. “Shut it.” I break away from the group in search of Officer Steeve. He’s supposed to be wearing a Shreck costume. I adjust my big hat to get a clearer view of the place. It’s big, dark, and wall-to-wall people in masks and costumes.

The mask of Ronald Reagan appears in front of me. A hand holds out warm punch. I step back and mock-admonish, “I don’t take drinks from strangers!”

Ronnie pushes the drink closer to me, motioning for me to take it. “If you knew me,” I say, “you would know that I drink only the hard stuff at these parties.”

Ronnie takes the drink back. I hear a muffled laugh from behind the mask. The mask leans into my ear and says, “I’ll take note of that for next time.”

That voice. It doesn’t belong to any staff. Not faculty either. My tinglies come to life as I steady myself against the wall. “What are you doing here?” I hiss at Jeffery Rigger.

“Couldn’t miss an opportunity to see you all dressed up.” He flicks the brim of my hat, and then flicks off imaginary lint from the lapels of my brother’s trench coat. “Should I call you sheriff or detective?”

I ignore the question. I’m a bit annoyed at his overconfidence. Also a bit more turned on. “You’re crazy. You’re going to get both of us in serious trouble.”

He stops flicking at me. “You worry too much.” That muffled laugh emerges once more.

“You make too much trouble,” I retort very weakly. It’s a bad comeback. “What if someone comes over to talk to us?”

“I’ll walk away and you’ll say you have no idea who I am.”

He has a point. When I go to respond, he cuts me off.

“We can debate all night or we can have a good time. Either way, you’re still standing here talking to me, so I suggest going the good time route.” His eyes stare out at me from behind the rubber mask.

He has another good point. I don’t protest. Instead, I say, “So no trick or treating for you tonight? No big party?”

“Professor, it’s 4 o’clock. By the time you guys pack it in here, I’ll be just starting my partying.”

“Ah, I remember the good old days at the dorm.”

“Hey! I live in a house!” he corrects.

Then we sink deeper into conversation while moving farther out of sight from Frida, Kitty cat, the draculas, the pilgrim, the hippie, and everyone else who would possibly come over to talk to me. We somehow get on the topic of how Halloween is as dangerous as alcohol because you’re never quite sure what the person you’re talking to looks like.

“You know,” I say, holding up a drink in my hand, “95% of the population is undatable.”

Jeffery/Ronnie mocks surprise and says, “95%? That’s kind of high. You think 95% of the population is so ugly that they’re not datable?”

I hold up a hand and proclaim, “Undatable!”

He asks, “So how are they all getting together?”

We both say at the same time, “Alcohol!” and toast to our imitation of yet another Seinfeld scene. Jeffery is always good for a reenactment. As our chuckles fade, I want to kiss him. So inappropriate at the faculty/staff masquerade ball. Even with alcohol, no one ever makes out with anyone.

He must have the same idea because he grabs my hand and says, “Let’s get out of here.”

I admit, “I was considering that. Don’t you have a trick or treating thing to go to?” I pull my hand away nervously, suddenly remembering Steeve and how I’m supposed to meet him.

No sooner do I remember that when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “I believe that hat is mine!” Steeve roars at me, sounding what I can describe only as jolly.

I jut a hip towards him and say, “Sure is! What ya gonna do about it, sucka?”

Then he lays one on me. So much for inappropriate make-outs at the faculty/staff masquerade ball. I push him away, yelling, “Inappropriate! Inappropriate!” I’m dying inside. I wonder what Jeffery’s doing. I sneak a peek behind me and see him looking at the ceiling, shifting weight from one foot to the other.

Then, once Steeve finishes molesting me, he pats Jeffery on the shoulder and says, “Wish I had some jelly beans for you, Ron!”

Jeffery gives Steeve two thumbs up and then pats him on the shoulder with more force than necessary. Steeve, being a huge hulk of a guy, doesn’t notice the extra force as I do. I feel it all through me.

Steeve, not realizing the awkwardness between Reagan and me, continues. “So what were you two talking about?”

Jeffery says, “How 95% of the population is undatable.”

Because I can’t control myself and because my neuroticism is being pushed to its limit at this point, I echo with a hand pumping in the air, “Undatable!”

Steeve ponders us, puzzled. “Is that a scientific study?”

“Yeah,” Jeffery answers from behind his mask, “Scientist Seinfeld.” The response is filled with bitterness.

Steeve continues to show puzzlement. “Seinfeld? Isn’t that the show you watch?” He points to me.

I offer a fake laugh. “Yes, Steeve. Our friend Ronald here was joking.”

“Yup,” he punches Steeve’s shoulder with extra force, “joking. Gotta go.”

With that, Reagan slips away. Steeve asks, “Who was that?”

“Dunno. Just a guy in a mask. Wasn’t talking long enough to find out.” I’m quick with lies lately. They just roll out of me. Not a good habit to develop usually; nevertheless, when a gal is playing the field, sometimes little white lies are a necessary evil.

“So where is the rest of my uniform? I gave you the whole thing.” Steeve tugs at the trench coat, noticing my regular work clothes beneath it. “Why just the hat?”

I size him up and down. “Steeve, do you know how tall you are?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t comprehend that the question was my answer.

“Um, since you’re so tall, and I’m so not, the uniform was way too big. So I settled on the hat.”

“It would have been cute to see you in it though.” Is that a sexual innuendo? Is that him being him? Then I realize that he’s wearing his uniform, too.

So I ask, “Hey, where’s your costume? What happened to Schreck?”

He points at his clothes. “I’m wearing my costume.” He’s in his Public Safety uniform.

“Those are your work clothes.”

“Yeah, I’m an office of the law!” He nods.

“That’s what you are every day.” I sip my drink.

“Not everyone knows that!” He seems proud. It’s weird. A little dumb even. I let it slide, working on that non-judgmental side of myself. Staring at his broad chest makes being non-judgmental easier.

I rub said chest. “You’re completely right. Let’s go mingle.” I grab his arm and weave our way back to the circle of youngins with Jerry, Norma, Brenda, and now Susie on the outskirts. “Look who I found!” I sing out. Everyone says hi and starts chatting up a storm.

Jessica/Frida whispers, “Why isn’t he wearing a costume?”

I answer, “That is his costume. Not everyone knows he works for Public Safety so he’s pretending he’s dressing up as an officer of the law.”

Jessica/Frida nods and says, “You know how to pick em!”

“I sure do.” I shake my head in disbelief and excuse myself to go to the ladies room.

While there, I slam my stupid hat down on the counter and fluff up my hat hair. Then, not really digging the urine smell of an unclean bathroom, I grab the hat and walk down the hall and outside. Goblins and ghosts and witches and fairies and, of course, Draculas are all over campus. I search for Ronald Reagan. In the dark amid crowds of masks, I can’t see anything. I want to walk among them to find him, but being alone at night on Halloween is a stupid thing to do. I settle on going back inside.

I catch up with the crew who is deciding that it’s time to leave. They all hug and say goodbye. The circle of young faculty have a group hug and the older faculty clap for us for no real reason. We all walk outside and say goodbye. Steeve hangs around at the bottom of the front steps as Leah, Jessica, and I dish some dirt.

Leah asks, “Where did you disappear to?”

“Don’t ask. You don’t want to know,” I say.

Jessica adds to Leah, “We could be asking you the same thing.”

Leah answers, “I’m going with Marie’s answer. Don’t ask.”

“Wait a minute,” I hold up a hand. “You disappeared too?”

“If you’re not answering, I’m not answering.”

Jessica says, “All I know is that I got to hear way too much information about Matt Farr’s trip to Vegas involving strippers and a dominatrix name Dolly.”

Leah covers her ears with a shrieking “Eww!” I grab Jessica’s elbow. “Matt was dominated by a stripper named Dolly?”

Jessica backs away and says, “I’m not telling. When you choose to disappear, you choose to miss out on all the juice.” She steals my smirk.

“Hush up, unibrow,” I counter.

She hits me and Leah mocks motherhood, “Now, now, girls. No horseplay at the top of the steps.”

Jessica says, “It’s getting late and I have a party to get to.” New man in her life has parties every night so having one tonight on a holiday isn’t much of a shocker.

Leah says, “Well have fun. Unibrow.”

Jessica hugs us goodbye and leaves. Leah motions at Steeve and asks me, “So you two going to party it up together?”

I wave away the thought. “Nah. I’m feeling kind of crappy. I might just go home.” I do feel crappy. All I want to do is talk to Jeffery Rigger and apologize for how Steeve came over to us and interrupted our moment. I want to talk to Jeffery Rigger until the sun comes up and sets. I also want to do the same thing with Steeve if I can’t find Jeffery Rigger.

“Yeah, I get you.” Leah nods. “Hugs!” The two of us hug and she skips off to her car.

I meet Steeve at the bottom of the steps. Before I can tell him that I’m not feeling well, he takes the hat from me and says, “Sorry to cut this short. I need to get going.” He’s fidgeting and sweating a little.

“Okay?” I ask more than state. I should be happy about this. Suddenly, I’m more upset than ever. Why doesn’t he want me around? He ruined the good time I was having with Jeffery Rigger and now he wants to leave. Fantastic.

“Sorry.” He kisses me flush on the lips and lingers for a moment. “Very sorry.” He flashes his dimples and skips off.

I’m standing alone amid a bunch of scary masks and costumes in my brother’s trench coat. Just as I start to tell myself that I can’t embark on a session of self-pity, I hear it. The screechy tone of the one and only.

“Marie Roma? Is that you?”

I can’t go beyond smirk mode. “Yes, it is. How are you?”

Cockknocker shows her fangs. “You know I don’t usually come to these things.” She’s wearing her peacock blue power suit and the scuffed white shoes.

“Right.” I fiddle with the buttons on the trench coat. One comes off in my hand. I slip it into the pocket.

Seeing that I wasn’t going to offer any answer to keep the conversation going, Cockknocker continues regardless. “Er, I, uh, came because I had forgotten to tell you that I heard about your plagiarism problem. You know you should come to me about it.”

I can’t help myself. “You came to a party to talk to me about work?”

“Yes.” She stands there in all her seriousness. She waits for a reply from me.

I want to take the button out of my pocket and ding her in the head with it. It wouldn’t hurt much and would make me feel a lot better. Since it’s my brother’s button, I keep it in my pocket. I answer quickly, “Duly noted! Thanks!” I walk as quickly as I can in the direction of my car. To hell with not walking alone at night on Halloween. I’d run through a minefield if it were the quickest way to get away from Cockknocker.

During the car ride home, after having conference called Leah and Jessica to tell them what Cockknocker did, after having conference called Matt and Roger to tell them what Cockknocker did, and after having conference called Norma and Jerry to tell them what Cockknocker did, I get the urge to swing by student housing. I want to see what Jeffery is up to. A few of his housemates actually did invite me to their party, half seriously. I told them absolutely not because I was not condoning underage drinking. They guaranteed that no drinking was going on and then cracked up at themselves.

The debate isn’t a long one. I go directly home. I cannot take the risks that Jeffery Rigger takes. If he wants to crash a faculty party wearing a Ronald Reagan mask, then let him. I’m not going to crash a student party. I’m not putting myself in that much risk.

When I settle into my pajamas and stare at my computer screen, I read the email I knew I’d have from Jeffery Rigger.

PROFESSOR, YOU OWE ME A DINNER.

I write him back: YOU GOT IT. TOMORROW NIGHT.

In a minute, I have a new email: SEVEN PM AT THE BAD JAZZ PLACE.

I write back: OKAY. SHOULDN’T YOU BE AT A PARTY?

He writes back in a minute: THE NIGHT IS STILL YOUNG, PROFESSOR, ESPECIALLY FOR US YOUNGINS. =)

I let the comment sit there for him to gloat about although I’m tempted to point out that four years isn’t such a big difference and I can still get my party on if I so choose. Still, I let it rest knowing that teaching college makes me seem older than I am, and unfortunately, sometimes, I feel that way. I go to bed glowing with Jeffery Rigger on my mind.

The Superpowers Of A Supermodel

2010-03-07T09:34:00.000-08:00

The only change I notice in Sophia’s office is that the picture of Kenneth that had been on her desk is nowhere to be found. If memory serves me, he’s wearing a suit in the picture and has a half-grin and goofy hair. I’m not sure if he’s red. In any case, it’s not where it used to be. I don’t mention it. When Sophia wants to let me know that she’s done with Kenneth, she’ll tell me. I’ve given up trying to pry out of her the obvious lust between her and the supermodel.

The lust is obvious not just to me. The Questionaire, the newest tabloid mag, has attained several snapshots of the dynamic duo outside of Marquis Place, the hottest new restaurant in the city. These pictures would be the reason she’s running around the office like a madwoman, making me wait on our lunch date.

They’re the other reason I’m not pushing the Kenneth issue. He’s not too happy about the whole event. I heard the messages on her cell; he’s flipping out. He’s insecure. He’s accusatory. All for good reason. I’m surprised he didn’t see it sooner. You can take someone for granted for only so long until she realizes she deserves better. In this case, much better.

Sophia flies into her office. “Okay, okay. Let’s get out of here.” She grabs her LeSportSac. “Is the diner okay?”

“That’s fine. As long as we don’t sit near a window. I can’t take this paparazzi.” I roll my eyes.

She args at me. “Shut up, Roma.”

I follow her out, laughing. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

We take the stairs instead of the elevator, trying to avoid being stuck in close quarters with people who want to know all about the tabloid tale. We walk the block and a half to the diner. We sit in the back, far from the windows, just in case there really are paparazzi hanging around.

From behind my menu, I ask, “Has David said anything to you about it?”

Not moving her menu either, she says, “Yeah. He said not to worry. All publicity is good publicity.”

I lower my menu as she lowers hers. “Isn’t it your job to say that?”

“Yup. He beat me to it.”

“You’re blushing.” I’ve never known her to blush easily. This guy has her wrapped up with a red bow.

She whispers, “I know.” Her cheeks go from pink to red.

I weigh my next comment. I hope she’ll laugh. I joke, “You’re redder than Kenneth is.”

She does laugh, thankfully. “Born in a suit is mad at me.”

“I know. You played me the messages. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Whatever.” She picks up her menu. I don’t know why either of us is reading the menu. She’s getting fries and French onion soup. I’m getting grilled cheese with a pickle. She’s getting Coke. I’m getting unsweetened iced tea. We’ll both have to burp about a thousand times when we’re done so we’ll stay in the diner until our fit is over and she’ll get back to work fifteen minutes later than she’s supposed to. She’s got David Nellson. She’s untouchable.

She says, “I’m sure you noticed the picture is gone.”

I don’t move. “Yes, I did.”

Our waitress takes our order. Sophia doesn’t continue with the Kenneth conversation nor do we talk about the tabloid story. We discuss The Amazing Race and Big Brother and Phil and Dr. Will. We dish about the fabulous life of George Clooney and the more fabulous life of Angelina Jolie. We talk about Jeffery Rigger and how he’s adorable and nice and sweet and oh so dreamy and how I’m finally living on the edge, dammit. She mentions Steeve and asks if I’m still hung up on our virgin-syphilis-broken-hearted-has-a-girlfriend theory. I say that I’ve moved on to wonder if he’s gay. She asks if I’m serious and I say, thankfully, all I’m hung up on is if I should date a guy who feels he’s not smart enough to date me.

We move on to more important things such as the next time we’re going to go dancing. Which moves us back to David Nellson.

“David is a great dancer. He loves my robot.”

I laugh over the last bite of my grilled cheese. “Who doesn’t love your robot?”

“Kenneth.” She spits his name. I love it when she gets pissed. She doesn’t do it often enough.

“Well, fuck him.”

“Yeah. You said it.”

I munch on my pickle. “Yeah, because you wouldn’t.”

“Thanks.” She sucks up the last of her Coke. Signals for the check. We go Dutch. We burp for a while, silently and discreetly.

I take a deep breath. “You done?”

She nods. “With more than just this.”

I let it hang there. I don’t push. That’s the way we’ve always been.

Spilling The Beans

2010-02-28T09:30:00.000-08:00

Everyone has the inalienable right to be weird. However, that doesn’t mean that potential significant others must accept the weirdness. So I’m contemplating never seeing Steeve again after the a la vodka fiasco. Leah, on a quick escape between classes, is trying to talk me out of it.

“He’s a good guy. He cooked for you.” She spins in my computer chair and I rearrange my bookshelves. Leah actually met Steeve briefly while we walked through a student protest. He tipped his hat, I waved, and Leah giggled at the two of us. We had to leave quickly, though, because the crowd was getting rowdy. So was Leah—-much opposed to her usual composure, she pointed and gave a thumbs up at his sufficient package.

“He cooked for me, true. He also tried to scald me with sauce, threw half the dinner in the garbage and melted his pail, and threw the rest of it on the dining room floor. Along with my drink, I might add.” I punctuate my point by slapping a book into place.

“Yes. Focus on the positive. He cooked. He called you smart. He’s obviously gaga over you.” Leah gives me one of the mugs she uses on her students when she forces them to admit things they don’t want to admit--much similar to my champion smirk.

“Okay, Pollyana, can we wallow in the weirdness for a second? He’s gaga to the point of not being able to act normal around me.”

“Nope. No wallowing. Be happy for a while. He’s so nice and handsome. Besides, what else have you got going on?”

She meant it as a rhetorical question because she’s sure nothing else is going on. If I let this chance slide, as I have the hundred other opportunities, I’ll never tell her about Jeffery Rigger. Withholding that kind of information is the same damn thing as blatantly lying. So, I move from my shelves, shut the door.

“Take a deep breath, Leah, this is a big one.” I hop my butt on the edge of my desk.

She wheels back. “Oh, God, what did you do now?”

“I do have something going on outside of the Steeve thing.”

“Thomas?” She’s horrified. She gasps as she says it.

I actually take a moment to compute who the hell Thomas is. Then I remember the phone call I promised and did not make the day of Jessica’s art show. I shake my head. “No. Not Thomas. I told you guys that was finally over.”

“You’ve said that before and you’ve gotten back together with him.”

“This time is different--wait a minute. So not the point!”

“Right. Sorry. Who?”

“Someone from NYLISC.”

“Steeve is from NYLISC. It’s not someone else from security, is it?” Leah gives me her ‘you’re a naughty girl’ expression.

“No. I wouldn’t do that.”

Then she lights up. “Oh, God! You’re having an affair with Jerry!”

“No! What is wrong with you people? I am not now nor have I ever been nor will I ever be involved with Jerry Gillpatrick! Ew.”

“Well, if you would just tell me instead of making me guess.”

Now or never. “Remember that crush I told you about? Jeffery Rigger?” I hear the words coming out of my mouth. I feel my lips forming the name Jeffery Rigger and I feel my breath pass out the syllables and my voicebox reverberate the sound. I just can’t believe I’m saying it out loud. Suddenly, I need a deep breath, too.

Leah is white. Beyond white. Translucent. “Roma, you are an enigma.” She makes a few noises that are indecipherable.

“Are you okay, Le? Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”

“I’m fine. I’m absorbing.”

I don’t like it when Leah absorbs. I expected yelling, reprimanding, mocking. Even a high-five, way to go. Absorbing? I wasn’t prepared for that.

“Does Jessica know?”

“Nope. Just Sophia and Elena. They were there when he asked me out the first time.”

“Asked you out?!”

“Yeah. But . . .”

“First time?!” She covers her eyes with one hand and her left ear with the other.

“Yes; however, we’re not dating. We just hang out.” And give each other orgasms.

“I need to tell Jessica.” She reaches for the phone. It’s not next to my computer. “Where . . .”

“Bobby Kline must have hidden it for the two-thousandth time.” A knock at my door. Relief. I crack it open. “Speaking of the little devil.”

Boyish good looks will get him far in life. Brown hair just above the collar. Brown eyes. Clean. “Hey, Prof. Got any jobs for me?”

“You can begin by locating my phone.” I practically drag him inside to diminish the awkward tension my confession elicited between Leah and me.

Bobby Kline fades into embarrassment. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were in a meeting.”

He moves for the door, but I will not let my savior bail on me. “Don’t be silly. This isn’t a meeting!”

Leah nods. “Hi, Bobby. How are you?” She explains to me, “Education and Society class. Best student!”

He says, “I finished the paper, Professor Gattlin.”

“That’s a good thing considering it’s due tomorrow,” she smiles.

Bobby looks at me and says, “You both were the talk of Rawls Hall today.”

“Now what?” I ask.

“They were debating about who’s better at sarcasm, you or Professor Gattlin.”

“I hope you voted for me.” I smirk at Leah.

“If he wants an A on his paper, he voted for me,” she jokes.

He stands awkwardly in the middle of my office. “I didn’t vote. I inform only.” The tension doesn’t diminish. It skyrockets until it pushes Bobby out of the room before he puts back my phone. “I’ll be back later.”

I declare, “That was weird. He never blushes.” Then it hits me. “He has a crush on you, Leah.”

She blushes. “Now that’s too cute.”

We stare at the newly organized shelf for a second. Leah breaks the silence. “Do you have fun with Jeffery?”

My insides tingle. “Yeah.”

“Then good. Just be careful no one finds out.”

“Finds what out? We’re not dating!”

“Jeez, Marie. Whatever you’re doing, just be careful.” She moves for the door. “I guess Steeve has some real competition.”

I won’t be surprised when my ears ring because I know she’ll spill it all for Jessica as soon as she can. However, unlike Leah, I’m sure Jessica will be so proud that now, I, too, have something to confess.

Learning About Steeve

2009-12-28T07:15:00.000-08:00

Steeve wears khakis and a black button down shirt. The shirt is the right kind of tight. Not so tight that the buttons try to pop off, tight enough to show he knows his way around a benchpress. Steeve also has on an apron that says, “Baci il cuoco,” over his just-right-tight shirt and pants. He’s making rigatoni a la vodka. Steeve is Italian, I decide. That’s about four things I now know about Steeve. I have just decided that that’s the mission of this date. Learn as much as I can about Steeve.

His eyes scan me up and down and up and down and up. He lands on my lips and plants a huge kiss right on them. If this is how the night is starting out, then maybe I’ll get more than a kiss by the end. He has very full lips. Very soft lips. He bites my bottom lip as he pulls away. Officer Steeve has great Italian lips. “How are you, beautiful?”

I hesitate to ensure that he’s talking to me, not to himself. He continues to stare at my lips, so I say, “Just dandy.”

He flashes those dimples when I say, “Just dandy,” and kisses me again. “Good,” he says, and then guides me to his kitchen. Steeve has a nice house. His side door leads right into his kitchen that smells like oregano and vodka and heavy cream. Basically, it smells like my grandmother’s basement from when she lived in the Bronx. She never had a gorgeous man meet me in an apron with a kiss though. This is nice. This is why I like Steeve.

“Need any help?” I take off my pashmina. Pick up a wooden spoon that’s lying near the pot of sauce.

“Just relax. Let me serve you.” He takes the spoon from me and lifts me onto a counter. This is why I like Steeve.

I watch him cook. I watch him dance around the kitchen in his black loafers. He’s light on his feet despite his bulk, and he’s handy with herbs. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, letting his pecs peek out. His pants hang from his waist perfectly, allowing the material to conform to his glutes. Man, that ass.

“Marie?”

Oops. He must have been talking to me while I stared at his ass. “Yeah?”

“Right.” He continues. I guess he thought my question of “yeah?” was really an answer “yeah” to whatever he said. I try not to stare too much at how his arms flex with every move as he chatters away about this great recipe he got from a friend he’s known forever. The friend’s name is Michael. That’s a normal name. Michael went to culinary school. This is all very normal chatter. Very relaxing. Very easy. What the heck was I worried about?

I scan the kitchen. I’ve never really taken a good look at this place. We just watched a movie on our first date here. I didn’t get a grand tour. Something catches my eye in the garbage near the fridge. Shredded papers. A lot of shredded papers.

When he’s finished telling me about how he and Michael go camping every year, I ask, “Making confetti?” pointing at the garbage.

He gives a snort. “Making? Confetti?” He notes where I’m pointing. He scrambles over and pushes down the tiny streamers only to have them fluff up. “No. No confetti.” No more laughing. Then, to himself, “Great shredding, Steevo.” This is why I do not like Steeve.

Now I really want to know what he was shredding. I didn’t really care at first. I was just innocently curious. Now, I need to know. “Secret documents?” I ask coyly.

“Marie. Taste this.” He shoves a steaming spoonful of vodka sauce at me.

I grab his wrist as the spoon careens towards my mouth. “Can I wait until it stops boiling?!”

He steps back and shakes his head as if he’s just learned that stoves make things hot. “Oh, sorry. Sorry.” He blows on it to cool it off. His lush lips make a small o. He licks his lips as he offers the cooled spoon to me.

I lick the spoon clean. Then I lick his finger in the same way. “Thanks. Good.”

“Thanks to you, too.” He goes back to the stove and warns himself, “Watch it, Steevo.”

This is getting weird, mostly because of me. I am now fixated on the shredded garbage. I try to remind myself of the discussion I just had with Sophia about my knack for creating troubles that don’t exist. Still, I gaze over at the pail. It looks like photographs. That’s why they won’t crumple so easily. I hop off the counter and go over to the fridge, pretending to take inventory on the drink situation. Instead, I’m piecing together photos of what must be old girlfriends. You see, the thing about shredding is that it doesn’t get rid of evidence as, say, burning would. Shredding cuts things into neat rows. It does not protect the innocent. It does not hide the past. It simply cuts the past into long, straight streamers.

Before I can fumble for some orange juice, Steeve appears at my side, pouring pasta into the garbage. I jerk back from the steaming mound. “What are you doing with dinner?!”

“It’s burned a little. Just this part. We have enough.” He is ice. He is not nice. Weirder and weirder. Maybe he is Forrest Gump.

We sit down in the dining room. I detect the smell of burning rubber to my right. The pasta melting through the rubber garbage. I will not bring it up. The garbage makes him weird. He is back to being normal Steeve, asking about Cockknocker, telling me about work. I forget the shredded evidence and continue with the original plan: Learn about Steeve.

“Have any brothers or sisters?” I slosh down some Pinot. He remembered I don’t like beer, which is what he’s drinking, so he served me wine. That is why I like Steeve.

“Have?” He ponders. “You have a brother, right?”

“Yes. Tony. He’s engaged. You?”

“Me? No. Why would I be engaged if I’m dating you?” He’s sweating.

I try a different route. “Did you enjoy growing up in Queens? Did you live in an apartment?”

“Live?” He ponders. He has a far-off gaze that settles on the window. “Are you chilly? I know you get cold easily.” Before I can answer, he gets up and pushes the window in the dining room shut.

Now in addition to being abnormally fixated on the garbage, I’m highly annoyed that he keeps ignoring my questions. Forgetting that he tried to burn my lips off, I snap, “Are you ignoring me on purpose or do you just have a knack for switching subjects at random?”

When he’s done with the window, he flops into his chair. He doesn’t pull it back towards the table nor does he pick up his fork. He stares at his lap. He whispers, “Why do you ask so many questions? You writing a book?”

I’m waiting for him to say “Steevo” because I’m sure he’s talking to himself. There’s no way he’s talking to me like that. He doesn’t say, “Steevo.” So I say, “I was trying to have a conversation. Usually, that requires questions.” I put down my fork and stand up. “I’m leaving.”

He jumps up, bumping into the table and sending our drinks tumbling. Wine and beer cascade across the floor. He swerves around the table and bumps again, sending the plate of pasta over the edge as well. I stop in wonderment, and he corners me. His big frame stands between me and the door. “Not yet.” He hugs me, picks me up, and backs up into the dining room. He’s laughing, saying, “Please, I’m sorry. Not yet.”

I guess it’s kind of funny because I don’t know what else it could be. I laugh too, more of a nervous laugh because he’s no longer the Steeve I know. He’s a weirder version of Steeve. All the fun ends when weirdo Steeve slips on the puddles on the hard wood floor. We both go down. I’m on top of his six foot frame, nose to nose, in complete silence after the horrendously loud crash to the ground.

He whispers, “Are you okay?” He still hasn’t lost his grip. I’m in a bear hug on top of him.

I whisper back, “Yeah. You?” I squirm my arms out of the hug and push off of his chest so I’m kneeling beside him in a sticky puddle.

He sits up. “Yeah.” He’s dazed. He scrunches up his forehead, scratches his scalp, pushes back his chestnut hair. Tiny lines remain in his forehead where he scrunched it. “Wow. I really know how to show a woman a good time.”

“Yeah.” I still want to leave. I feel bad because we’re both wet and bruised.

He takes my hand. “Marie? Can we pretend this night didn’t ever happen?” He’s such a puppy dog.

“Sure, Steeve. Walk me out and it will be like I was never here.”

“First, let me say that this is not me.” He covers his heart with his hand. His fingernails are clean.

I’m almost shocked to hear him say that. All this time I’m thinking he’s not himself, and he winds up saying it out loud. I say, “Okay, go on.”

He takes a deep breath. “I’m not new at dating. I am new at dating someone like you, though.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

“Someone so smart. It’s like I can’t get over how you even talk to me. You’re a friggin professor!”

He’s got to be kidding. All his nervousness, all his quirks, he’s attributing to fear of appearing dumb. I answer, “Sure, I’m a professor. You’re a security guard. That’s what we do. Off campus, I’m a regular gal. I was hoping you’d be a regular guy, which is what I always hope about guys I find attractive.”

He seems to be blushing. In the low light, it’s hard to tell. He says, “I gotcha.”

I answer, “Good. Now can we get up out of the puddles?”

He rushes to his feet, saying, “Of course. I’m an idiot. Here.” He holds out his hands. Manly. Hands.

My outfit is soaked. I smell like beer. I repeat, “You want to walk me out? Do you want some help cleaning up?”

He holds on to me. “I’ll clean up my own mess. Let’s get you home. The sooner you get there, the faster you can forget about all this.” His eyes are hopeful.

I pat his shoulder.

He walks me to my car, kisses my lips, and sends me home. I’m hoping I can forget it all, too, now that I have a better idea of who Steeve isn’t.

Reinforcement

2009-10-30T09:03:00.000-07:00

Ever since New York passed the law that we couldn’t talk on the phone while driving, New York State drivers have come up with inventive ways to comply. Some use hands-free earpieces that they also wear everywhere they go which makes them seem to be talking to themselves. Some have bought the cell adapter that attaches to the radio so that the person on the other end sounds like the voice of God coming out of the speakers. Some hold the phone up to their ear and fling it into the passenger seat if they see a cop car. I mastered the art of text messaging while driving, but have stopped since a near miss with a black cat which I’m positive was a sign that I was near tragedy if I kept up my stupidity.

Instead of calling Sophia while driving to Steeve’s house, I pull into a drug store parking lot three blocks from his place. I was fine when Leah and Elena left. I was eager to see Steeve. Then during my drive, my insides revolted against me. Something started going very wrong. I’m now in a panic and need my friend.

“Hey, hang on!” is the one intelligible thing I hear when Sophia answers her phone. The rest is raucous thumping. After a full minute, she returns, “Hey what’s up?”

“Working I assume?” My windows fog up as I speak.

She loudly responds, “You know I am. You on your way? What are you wearing?” Sophia is at some model thing tonight. I try never to compare her job to mine.

“A skirt and a shirt. I’m freaking out!”

“Hang on!” is her answer. I listen to some muffled Nelly Furtado from her end while rocking slightly. The neon light in the drug store window casts a green-pink glow in my rearview. “Okay, why are you freaking out?”

I answer shakily, “Because I’m me.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” she replies. “I thought Leah and Elena helped you get ready. Didn’t they calm you down?”

Sophia was bummed she couldn’t share in the Festival of Closet Raiding when she found out my date conflicted with her work schedule. She had told me that if I still wanted to chat, I could call. I say, “They did calm me down. We had a lovely discussion about virginity and syphilis. Then they called him Rain Man and went home.”

“Ha!” Sophia doesn’t hold back. “Rain Man. Now that’s funny right there.”

“Sophia!”

She says more quietly, “Okay, sorry. So what, exactly, is the problem? You like this guy.”

I nod as if she can see me, “I do, I do. Still, there’s something about him.”

“I know what it is. He’s nice to you and you can’t handle that.”

I now shake my head. “Absolutely not true. I’m past that whole phase of bad boy. I like that Jeffery Rigger treats me good.” Nice. My defense is an unethical romp.

However, Sophia agrees, “You’ve got a point.” We’re both quiet for some time, the thumping on her end getting louder. Then she says, “What are the chances that he has a girlfriend?”

My insides churn more violently than ever. “Now that’s something we didn’t come up with.”

Sophia offers, “Maybe because it’s the one thing that his charm points to and his quirks steer you from.” I don’t reply right away so she continues, “Still, now we’re making something out of what is most probably nothing.”

I lean forward as far as I can to try to stop my insides from their rumbling. Flipping the defroster to high, I say, “Now that we’ve all gone over every possible scenario of what could be wrong with him, maybe I should focus on what’s right with him.” I say it mostly to get my nerves in check, but it’s also very true. I can’t live my life assuming the worst of my dates.

Amid the ruckus on the other end of the line, Sophia asserts, “There’s one more scenario. Maybe he’s married.” She has the nerve to laugh at this.

“Sophia! Not helping!”

“Stop, Marie. You know it’s funny.”

I shudder as the hot air blasts out of the vents. “Fine. It’s funny. Why is it funny?”

She screeches, “Because it’s idiotic to think so! You’re going on nothing! So he has a weird laugh. He doesn’t want to talk about his childhood. So what? You threaten me whenever I bring up high school!”

My insides, which had been on the road to settling, clench up at the thought of high school. Not my favorite subject. I’m guessing this is what Steeve feels like when I ask him about the past. Maybe it’s stuff that’s not worth mentioning. “Point taken,” I mumble.

“Hang on!” is Sophia’s response.

As I’m hanging, I reflect back on the card and the poetry. I picture the dimples and the strong hands that picked me up off the cracked ground in the rain. The voice that insisted I let him help.

“Are you there?” breaks through the muffled Furtado remix on the phone.

I jump. “Yes. Weighing it all.”

“Feeling better? I can hear you are.”

I answer, “And I can hear you’re busy. Go work. I’m gonna go play.” My insides churn in that can’t-wait-to-get-there way.

“Sure, brush me off,” Sophia mocks.

“Shut up!” I yell. “Thanks, by the way.”

“I know I’m great,” she laughs.

Before I hang up, I ask, “Is David Nellson around tonight?”

I hear her smile as she says, “You know it.”

We hang up and I whap the gas pedal to the floor for three blocks straight.

The Thing About Steeve

2009-09-04T08:09:00.000-07:00

Elena and Leah were separated at birth. The same style, the same suggestions, and the same quick wit. It’s frightening. They had known each other for only five minutes and already bonded against me and my judgment. I am standing in my bedroom in heels, a gray, lettuce hem skirt, and my bra, wrapped in my flannel throw because I’m freezing. I apparently cannot decide what shirt matches what shoes. That’s up to them. I try to remind them that I have gone out with Steeve on my own before, not once did I go naked. They still don’t believe that I can dress myself.

They are raiding my closet, holding up shirts and asking, “Do you seriously wear this?” When I answer that I do, they clarify, “In public?” Arg. I may not shop in Gucci, but I still know what looks good. At least I thought I did.

Elena insisted that she raid my closet. Leah, about the same time, insisted too. So I let them both do it. The one condition I set for Elena was that she could not under any circumstances even hint at the name Jeffery Rigger. I still haven’t told Leah. The timing hasn’t been right. It probably won’t ever be right. Elena crossed her heart, and now here we all are, the two of them berating me and me wondering why I let this happen.

I try to convince them one more time that I am a fashionista in sheep’s clothing. “You know, I know Steeve better than the two of you do. I would know what he likes best.”

They glance at each other and giggle. Some secret silent language known only among fashion-forward clothes horses. Elena hugs my shoulders. “Oh, Marie. Steeve doesn’t even know what Steeve likes. From what you’ve said about him, he doesn’t know much about desires.”

“Oh, come on, now! You make it sound like I’m dating Rainman!”

“K-Mart sucks!” Leah comes bounding out of my closet with a black halter top.

“Leah said, ‘sucks’” I point out. The rudest word she ever uses is crud.

She makes air-quotes. “I was quoting, Professor. I used to do English!” She holds the halter up in front of me for Elena’s approval.

Elena nods. “That’s a pretty top. Try it on.”

I snatch the shirt. “Oh? You approve of this one? It doesn’t scream thrift-store?” I drop the throw and put on the halter top.

They ignore me, continue with the Steeve conversation. “So where is it all going with him?” Leah plucks at the back of the top around my waist and then steps back to Elena. She makes the twirling sign. I obey, arms akimbo, spinning.

“I don’t know. I really like him.” I smirk. I don’t know why I smirk but I do. Sometimes even I do not understand the power of the smirk.

“Your face says you may not.” Elena replucks what Leah already plucked.

I spin like a ballerina. “Well, I like spending time with him even though he’s a bit of a mystery. There’s the whole not-making-a-move thing. Then there’s the hotness factor.”

“K-mart sucks!” Leah chuckles.

“He’s not Rainman, dammit! He’s mysterious. Like, um . . .”

“Like Forrest Gump?” Elena suggests. They cackle. They have the same cackle. I swear they are twins.

I brought all of this on myself. This making fun. This jabbing at Steeve. It started with me snarking about his spelling—the whole three e thing still irks me. I try to ignore it. I suppose one day, if we get married, I’ll be able to get him to legally change it. Even beyond the spelling, I started to notice his little quirks right off the bat. They’re endearing yet quirky. Like the way he sticks out his tongue when he unlocks a door. How he snorts when he laughs but only a snuffle snort, not a full snort, so it’s sort of like a nose whistle. The way he answers a lot of questions by first repeating the last verb of the questions (as in Question: “where did you grow up?” Answer: “Grow? Queens.”). The way he sometimes talks to himself or to the radio instead of talking to me (as in “Nice weather today, Steevo” or Radio: “Coming up, Beatlemania” Steeve: “Play it, radio, play it loud.”). How he seems interested in sex in that puppy love kind of way instead of any way that would lead to a long hot night.

However.

He also has talked me into the wee hours of the morning. He has sung “Wonderful Tonight” to me several times and sounded exactly like Clapton. He gave me books of poetry. He has made me want to be with him to feel my stomach flip. He has made me want to buy him cheesy cards that say he’s cute and funny and nice. He has calf muscles that bulge in a subtle way and fingers that can crack walnuts and wide, wide shoulders. Mmm.

Still, that only gets him so far. This is where the mystery comes in. In our past dates, I have told him the story of my life. He has told me he grew up in Queens. He’s thirty-three. His parents spelled his name with three e’s so that he would stand out in a crowd. That’s about all I know. Plus, although at first he made me forget about Jeffery Rigger, now Jeffery found his way back to the forefront of my mind, especially since the sexual pleasuring. That tongue ring was his best move yet. Since Wednesday, I haven’t thought much of Steeve except for when I got that card. Now, it’s more about Steeve than Jeffery. My head can’t pick just one.

“Voila. You look mahvelous!” Elena claps at her own acceptance of my black halter, gray skirt, black heels, and gray pashmina.

“Oui, oui, mon cheri!” Leah claps too.

I hike up my skirt. “Ooh, la, la! Maybe I’ll get some action tonight.”

Elena, adjusting my shirt, begins to delve into the Steeve psyche a little more. “I know that he has annoying habits.”

Leah says, “As do we all.”

Elena continues, “He also has a very sweet side.”

Leah says, “As do we all,” again.

Elena adds, “So we just need to figure out why he’s not kissing you all over the place.”

Leah says, “Or not.” She blushes.

I say, “I’d like to know why not.” I flush, heated by the thought of a naked Steeve all sweaty and gruff.

Leah suggests, “He’s probably a private person. I am. I don’t kiss until the eighth date.”

I squint at her. “The eighth date? What kind of rule is that?”

Leah leans against the dresser and counts on her fingers, “Date one is get to know you over drinks. Date two is dinner and drinks. Date three is dinner, a movie, drinks.”

Before she gets to date four, I ask, “How can you consider yourself a non-drinker? By date three, you’re sloshed.”

She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, by Date Eight you know if you want to kiss him. Even then, a simple kiss on the lips will do. Save the bump and grind for when you’re really passionate.”

Elena and I fall to pieces. Now it’s my turn to count off on my fingers. “First off, you just said ‘bump and grind’ which I thought was a term reserved for bad rap music circa 1984. Secondly, you wait until Date Eight just because it rhymes and you know it.”

Leah indignantly says, “Well I can’t explain it then. You won’t understand. That’s how it works in my world.”

Elena suggests, “I wonder if that’s how it works in Steeve’s world. Perhaps in the Land of Steeve, bump and grind is reserved for Date Eight.”

I clarify, “It’s not the bump and grind I want. I want to feel like I’m irresistible to him. Feeling cute works for only so long. Feeling irresistible, that’s the key.”

Leah allows, “Fair enough.”

Elena grabs my wrist suddenly. She blurts out, “Maybe he’s a virgin!”

I say, “No way.”

Leah says, “Even I’m not a virgin.”

I agree, “Good call, Le.”

Elena shakes her head. “No. It makes perfect sense. He’s probably got all these annoying habits that come out because he’s so nervous. Then he probably wants to get in your pants, but he’s waited way too long. He’s missed his virginity-loss window and now he’s a basket case.”

Leah pipes up, “He could simply be a private person.”

Elena keeps going with her own theory. “Think about it, Marie. He doesn’t talk a whole lot about his past. He’s probably never had a real girlfriend. Probably has never been in love.”

It does make a bit of sense. Then I have to disagree. “No. Not him. Maybe he hasn’t had a girlfriend in a while; however, he’s had to have someone when he was younger though. I mean, the guy is ripped. Long fingers and all. He’s sometimes charming. Habits develop over time so he probably didn’t have those weird habits when he was a teenager. Plus, he’s ripped.”

Elena says, “You said that he’s ripped already.”

“Oh, it’s worth repeating. Long fingers, too.”

Leah, seeing her “private person” theory is going nowhere, suggests, “Maybe he’s been hurt. Like really hurt. A broken engagement. A broken heart.”

Elena then says as if she’s come to the real reason, “Maybe he has syphilis!”

I whack her with a bra. “Elena! Please refrain from accusing my date of having an STD!”

Leah says, “Well, she could be right. I mean, we’ve all probably had something at some point whether we’ve known it or not.”

I throw the bra at her. “From Little Miss Privacy to Sexual Health Consultant in one minute flat. Nice.”

She throws the bra back at me. “I was just making a statement of fact. Please refrain from tossing your underwear at me.”

I sit on the bed. “This is what we have so far. Steeve is a virgin who contracted an STD from someone who broke his heart.”

Elena slaps my knee with an, “Exactly!” while Leah simultaneously shouts, “No!”

I put out my hands in prayer and beg, “Then please tell me what you really think it is about him that makes him hold back!”

Leah then grasps something that even I don’t at first. “Oh, sweetie. You think it’s you.”

I start to say, “That’s ridiculous” but stop myself. Instead, I say, “I think you’re right.”

Elena sits next to me. “Marie, it’s not you. You have plenty of guys wanting you.” I squeeze her hand and widen my eyes. She squeezes back, reassuring me that she’s not about to blow my cover by mentioning Jeffery Rigger in front of Leah. Instead she says, “First off, all your students must drool over you. Secondly, every time we go out, guys stare at you and hit on you.”

Leah adds, “Remember Cash Cab guy? He was into you, too. Whatever is going on in Steeve’s head has nothing to do with you.”

I stand up. I twirl for myself in the mirror. I do look good. “Thanks, you two.”

They gather their things and head out the door together to get a drink, saying the things friends always say to send other friends out on dates: “Call if you need anything. Have fun! Use a condom!” When I almost have the door closed, I hear a quick, frantic, “Officer Steeve. Main man. Charlie Babbit.” And then a loud cackle that will wake the neighbors.

What A Hickey From Kenickie Is Like

2009-08-28T13:41:00.000-07:00

After battling through traffic on the parkway and finding no water at the water cooler to make a much-needed cup of hot chocolate, I grab at my mail in the department office. Some papers left by students are there even though I tell them never to leave papers in my mailbox. Some are not even from my students. I shove them into the general office box for everyone to peek through.

I head to my office down the hall, sifting through flyers from Career Services and Student Affairs. Then I come to an envelope as I push into my office. It’s sealed. It’s mint and pearly. I put all the other junk down to open the envelope.

It’s a card. From Steeve. A puppy on the front. Holding a milkbone. The inside is all from him. “Just saying hi. Thought this was cute. Kind of like you. Cute. Have a great day.” He signed it with his name in flourishing script. So flourishing that I could barely notice that it has two e’s where only one should be. He even added a P. S.: “Will be envisioning our next encounter until I actually see you.”

Awwwwwwwwww!

I guess that’s a perk of dating someone at work. He knows just where your mailbox is to leave you a love note. Wait, this isn’t a love note. Not love. It’s a like note. It’s an I-like-you-enough-to-think-about-you-when-I-see-cute-puppies note. He didn’t sign it “love.” He signed it with a passionate, flourishing Steeve. He added a post script because he couldn’t contain his charm. The morning quickly switches to a good one as I think about Steeve, and when I think about Steeve, I see a massive body made of all solid muscle and smooth tanned skin. A lickable neck. A likeable smile. Swoon.

“Isn’t it too early to be that happy?” Brenda’s standing in the doorway. She holds out a Styrofoam cup. “Hot water?”

I throw down the card and exclaim, “That’s just what I need!”

She says, “I know. The student aid told me you were mumbling to yourself about the water cooler. I found some student in the hallway. Got her to put on a new bottle.”

“Her?”

“Have you seen some of our softball players?”

“Oh, yeah,” I agree, taking the steaming cup from her. “Thanks. You’re a Godsend.”

She waves her hand and says, “No problem.” Then, “So why the happy happy joy joy?”

I grab the card from the desk and show her. “Cute, right?”

She says, “Awwwwww.”

“I know!” I blush. I feel my cheeks get all warm. “Someone likes me!” I squeal, plucking the card back from her.

She rolls her eyes. “Are you twelve?”

“Thirteen and a half!” I twirl around.

“Too early for this.” She goes off to her own office in good spirits.

I give myself another twirl and upon my completion, stop dead in my tracks.

“Did you mention politics in your composition class yesterday?” Cockknocker blocks my doorway, manila folder in hand. I wonder if it’s my file. Actually, it can’t be my file. It’s way too thin to be my file.

Buzzkill. My giddiness fades. “No,” I reply, “I didn’t have Comp yesterday.”

She’s unfazed. “Do you know who did?”

“Who mentioned politics or who had Comp?” I’m still standing with my feet in twirl position. I’m teetering but I don’t want to budge. Movement always causes her to stay longer.

She says, “Both.”

I say, “I don’t know. Don’t you have the schedule?”

She says, “Yes.”

I say, “Okay.”

She says, “We should have a meeting. To talk about this.”

I’m stunned. I ask, “About what?”

She waves around at nothing in particular. “This.”

I glance down. I see my feet so close together and wonder how long I can hold myself in the balance. I check out my hem. It’s fine. It’s right above my knees. My skirt is flowy, not too tight. My belly button isn’t showing. My hair is down and out of my face. I have to ask. “What do you mean by ‘this’?”

Cockknocker waves more wildly. “This. You know that your office is a place of work. Not play.”

She must have seen me twirling. I respond as earnestly as I can, “I was swatting at a fly. I wasn’t playing.”

She eyes me up and down. She stops at the card in my hand for a second. Her eyes meet mine. She pushes her glasses up the ridge of her nose. Amazingly enough, she uses her pointer finger for a change. She says, “You may want to try to swat at it with something a little bigger.” She points at the card, completely transparent. Yet she’s giving in for some reason.

I ask, “So no meeting about fly swatting, right?”

She nods. “Right.” Then leaves. No doubt, she’s got a bigger fight to pick with whoever dared to talk politics yesterday.

I fall into my desk chair and click on the computer to check my email before I head over to class. As the login screen comes on, I hear a voice whisper-singing “Wonderful Tonight.” My chest flutters.

“Officer Steeve!” I practically jump over my desk to hug him. “Thanks for the card. How did you know I needed that this morning?”

“Know? I just knew.” He hugs me back. His cheek rubs mine. It’s cold and smooth. His arms squeeze all the breath out of me, in a good way.

I coo, “It was nice that you knew.”

He laughs. It comes out as kind of a laugh-huff. A half-laugh. When he did it on our first date, I thought he was choking. I’ve noticed that it’s just how he laughs. He growls all sexy, “You’re cute when you call me nice.”

I turn on my coy voice. “You’re even nicer when you call me cute.” I put my head down, swing back and forth with my hands clasped behind me in my best cute-as-a-button routine.

He hugs me quickly (oh those pecs) and says, “Gotta run. Just wanted to say good morning. See if you got the card and stuff.”

“Well I did. And good morning to you. Working all day?” I ask.

“Working?” He answers. “All day? Yup. You betcha. I’ll call you later. Make plans. Kay?”

I gush, “Sure!”

He leaves and I begin to twirl but then stop myself for two reasons. One, I think I hear him say something to me. I peek my head out the door to find that he’s talking to himself. I suppose we’re all entitled. Two, the fly swatting excuse won’t work a second time if Cockknocker is still on the prowl.

I return to my email, newly elated by the pop-in visit from Officer Steeve. Sure he answers questions by repeating half the question and he talks to himself and he has a weird laugh. He also bought me poetry and gave me a card and gave me a sweet hug hello. Maybe this will lead to something good.

When I go back to my email, I see something that is also good. Very good. An email from Jeffery Rigger. Just to say hello. And to ask what the homework was. I’d like to believe that last part is all subterfuge.

Grading

2009-08-21T07:12:00.000-07:00

Conference call number two of the week. Sophia and Elena are loving the soap opera. My love life serves as usual fodder for comic relief. Now? It’s juicy.

“I feel so dirty!” I put my hand over my forehead as I sit on my living room floor. “This is so wrong. I am so going to Hell.”

Elena asks, “Seriously. What’s so wrong about it? It’s not as if you’re giving him grades he doesn’t deserve.”

Sophia adds, “And neither of you is planning on threatening the other with blackmail, right?”

In any other case, that would be part of my paranoia. With Jeffery Rigger, I just know he wouldn’t do that. “You guys are right but still, it’s wrong. I know it’s wrong to compare him with Steeve, but I mean, come on!”

Elena answers first, “I see what you’re saying. You get an orgasm from Jeffery Rigger one night. The next night, you go out with Steeve, and the highlight of your evening is catching the Soup Nazi episode of Seinfeld.”

Sophia pipes up, “I can’t stand that show.”

I come back, “Yes, I know. You’re the only person in the world who hates Seinfeld.”

She tsks her tongue and says, “Hate is a strong word. I dislike it.”

I answer, “Whatever.”

Elena cuts in, “Not the point, ladies! Point is, Marie had two orgasms with Jeffery and none with Steeve.”

True. Whenever I give, I also feel satisfied. I’ve always been able to do that. I have no idea how. I’m such a lucky gal.

Sophia answers, “Fine. Still, Steeve is the only real chance at a functional relationship right now. I mean, you and Jeffery Rigger need to keep secret. That won’t work very long. If you go public, you’ll have no job. Also, according to your own admission, Steeve is hotter. He’s a hunk, remember.”

Elena adds, “Playing with fire is fun. Sophia has a point here though.”

I nod as if they can see me and say, “Yes, but I need some fun right now. If fun means juggling an elicit affair with someone I shouldn’t even lay eyes on with a good-times relationship with a genuine hunk of a guy, so be it!”

Sophia says, “Okay. Keep doing what you’re doing. Be careful. No one says you have to be tied to one man.”

I exclaim, “I was just telling myself that the other day!”

Elena says, “Good. So it’s settled. Continue both relationships until one fizzles out.”

I answer, “With Steeve, there’s not much left to fizzle if we’re talking sex.”
Elena answers back, “Well, you have one more date planned with him. See how that goes. Plus, there’s more to having a relationship than orgasms.”

We’re all silent for a minute. We listen to each other breathing as we ponder this last tidbit of reality. I’m the first to speak. I say, “I know you’re right, Elena. I know I’m being a bit unfair about Steeve. I know I should give him a fair chance. I should stop comparing sexual prowesses.”

Sophia chimes in, “So then stop doing that. Take Steeve seriously. He seems really into you. He gave you poetry. That lasts longer than an orgasm.”

Elena adds, “Maybe he’s shy. Gentlemanly. Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment to make a perfect memory.”

Sophia continues, “So go out with Steeve with an open mind and see where it takes you. You did say that you like him.”

I answer, “I do like him.”

Sophia adds, “Remember what Elena just said. That relationships aren’t all about the orgasm. You did admit to having fun with Steeve, you know.”

“True.” I answer. Sophia keeps going.

“You called him nice and cute.”

Elena says, “The books are endearing. If you stop comparing him, he chalks up to be a great guy. Maybe he’s just not sexually aggressive.”

I cock my eyebrow all the way up. “That’s a nice way to put it,” I answer. “The orgasm thing isn’t the only thing that’s giving me issues with him.” I can’t keep it from them anymore. It’s time to point out the little flaws. They wait in silence. I explain, “He has a way about him that he can say a whole lot and not really say anything.”

Sophia says, “So he’s not a conversationalist. He doesn’t want to tell you everything about him at once. So what?”

I answer, “I know it sounds petty. If it were only that, only the not-opening-up to me, I’d be fine with it. If it were the lack of sexual tension alone, I’d be okay. But it’s both. If you don’t have one, you should have the other. Right?”
More silence. Then Elena says, “You should try to crack open the vault. Is your conversation all that extensive with Jeffery Rigger?”

I say, “no,” having never really thought about it. Come to think of it now, I do have good conversations with the fine young thing. However, I convince myself to listen to my friends, “You’re right. No more comparing.”

Elena chimes in, “Good job, Sophia.”

“Thanks, Elena. I know all about putting things in perspective.”

“Gag me,” I giggle. They giggle too. “Thanks you guys. Let me go. I have to get back to grading.” I shift around the papers on the floor in front of me.

“Ciao,” says Elena.

“Have fun,” says Sophia.

“Right,” I say to myself as I let my grading pen fly.
~Academic Interlude~

Malik Lov
Composition
In-class Free Write
Prof. Roma

The worst date I ever had…
Well, you see, the worst date I ever has was with this bangin’ shorty, so you know that it was supposed to be all good. My cousin set us up, you see. It was a blind date. I ain’t never had a blind date before. Oh, wait, now I’m writing the way I talk, which you, Professor Roma, tell us never, ever to do, even if it has to do with our own personal lives. My love life, I have got to tell you, is as personal as personal gets. So anyway, let me back track here.

I had a blind date with a girlie that my cousin set me up with and I was psyched because she was supposed to be hot and stuff. So then I go to pick her up and I borrowed my cousin’s Rolex, which is fake but looks realer than my fake, and his Escalade. No, I’m not making this up because my cousin is rich. He know P. Diddy. I mean, knowS P. Diddy. Almost did that writing the way I speak thing again. Don’t you love how I correct myself. Anyway, P. Diddy. He and my cousin are real tight and stuff. So PD gave my cousin an Escalade. So I borrowed it.

I pulled up to this girl’s house. She came out all fine, wearing a hot red top and a tight black skirt and some shoes that had heels and she was sparkly and fine. So I got out of the car and said, “Hi, I’m Malik.” She smiled. I guess she said, “Hi, my name is so and so,” but I have NO IDEA what she said, Professor. Because, Professor, she had the most jacked-up teeth I ever seen! Believe that! She was nasty! She should of never smiled.

So I faked a sudden ear-ache, got back in the vehicle, and drove off.

And that was the worst date I ever had. How you like that, P?

Malik—
I feel your pain, save that this wasn’t really a date. You never even got to the date part! However, this was quite descriptive, and I appreciate the conscious effort into trying to write the way you’re supposed to write instead of writing the way you speak.
Nice job. A+
MRoma

Unprotesting

2009-06-19T11:05:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

He says, “There’s traffic.”

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

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

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

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

Jim half-raises his hand. “Start.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim: “Because people want change.”

Frannie: “Because people are bored.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What what?” He answers in confusion.

“Did I say something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever you say, Professor.”

He sits. I kneel.

We’re even.

The Next Night

2009-06-16T12:59:00.000-07:00

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

However.

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

How Did He Do That?

2009-05-25T05:57:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elena scolds, “Tell him so!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“Where is all this coming from?”

“The heart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I say, “He’s hot, too.”

Sophia says, “That’s important, too.”

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

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

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

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

“Okay, just checking.” And we laugh.

Urgent Correspondence

2009-05-03T14:28:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

This memo is the epitome of reasons to hate Cockknocker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I click reply:

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

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

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

My work email bings again:

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

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

* * * * * * * *

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

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

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

“I could ask you the same thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

“So get your PhD.”

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

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

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

He winks. “No offense taken.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. That. The tongue ring.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I play dumb. “Trying what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You could have recycled those.”

“Okay, Al Gore.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you seeing anyone else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I take it in mine. “Deal.”

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

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

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

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

Sidenote...

2009-05-03T06:29:00.001-07:00

Fifth Student Protest of the Fall

2009-04-24T13:30:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Jessica Blessing Confesses

2009-04-13T09:09:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

“Penises,” I affirm.

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

I say, “Hi, Professor Clepper.”

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

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

Cockknocker says, “Yes. Good.”

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

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

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

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

I say, “yes.”

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

I say, “Right. Thanks.”

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

I laugh. “Yeah, I know.”

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

I nod. “I know.”

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

Jessica asks, “Where was I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Academic Interlude~

Mark Shefsky
EDUC 208
Education and Society
Prof. Gattlin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Date Report

2009-03-28T05:53:00.000-07:00

Sophia’s apartment is immaculate and minty as always. Baked baskets abound.

“I am highly disturbed, as an English professor and a human, that he misspells his own name.”

Sophia rolls her eyes at me and slams down the three of clubs. “Go fish my ass! Seriously, Marie, you need to stop obsessing over this. You like him. That’s what should count.”

I pick up the three. Put down a Queen. “Yes, I know. However, can I, in good conscience, date someone who so heinously corrupts the English language?”

“It’s not the entire language. It’s his name. It’s not misspelled. That’s how he spells it. I mean, take David Nellson for example.”

“That’s not his given name. His birth certificate doesn’t say N E L L S O N!” I put down my final pair of cards. “I win. You shuffle.”

“How do you know what his birth certificate says?” She shuffles and deals.

I answer, “I don’t. Is that really how he spells his name?”

She shakes her head. “No. We made it up. His real name is Theodore David Weldon. What’s the difference?”

Arg. “David is a super-uber-model and Steeve is on staff at the safety patrol.”

“Stop swimming in the kiddie pool, Marie!”

“I’m not being shallow! If I were, I wouldn’t think twice about this whole thing because Steeve is hotter than David Nellson by far!”

“Fine. Then it’s settled. Go out with him. Get over Thomas.” She lisps the name and flips her hair when she says “Thomas.” She’s thought he may have subconscious homosexual tendencies ever since I told her he likes to use coasters on the coffee table and spritzes the bed with lilac aroma therapy spray. He also buys potpourri because it smells pretty and puts it into pretty little glass vases he buys at the local craft store. When he thinks no one is listening, he whistles Natalie Merchant; I have no idea where he learned her songs considering his CD collection is made up of rappers who pronounce the “th” sound like an “f” (as in strenf instead of strength).

“I am over Thomas. I just don’t believe it’s ethical to the job to date someone with a spelling problem.” I punctuate my stance with a solid fist to the table.

Sophia’s eyes get all wide and she shimmies her shoulders back and forth. “Oh, and hanging out with Jeffery Rigger isn’t a breach of ethics?”

Ouch. I pick up my cards. No pairs. What a lousy hand.

“I’m not hanging out with him. Not anymore.” I fan out my cards. I avoid eye contact with Sophia. Instead, I stare at her new place mats she made out of candy wrappers.

“Really?” She leans across the table and presses my cards down.

I smirk. I can’t lie. “Well, I don’t think I should. I mean, Steeve is the real thing and Jeffery surely isn’t.”

Sophia throws down her cards, grabs mine, and does the same with them. “What’s wrong with you? A minute ago, you’re telling me why Steeve is so wrong, and now you’re telling me that he could be the one.”

“Whoa! No one said ‘the one,’ Miss Fancy Pants, so you can back it down.” I push all the cards together to restack the deck. I don’t feel like playing anymore.

“Fine. Stop wishy-washying.”

“Is that even a word?”

“Yes, I made it up just now. Gonna ditch our friendship because of it?” She folds her arms and leans back in her kitchen chair. I do the same. Then she leans forward and holds her head against her hand, elbow on the table between us. “Marie, I know this might be hard for you to do, but I’m telling you, you’ve just got to ride this thing out.” She picks up the deck, mindlessly shuffling it with one hand. Her uncle is a real card shark, taught her everything she needs to know about gambling. Whenever we go to Atlantic City, we stay for free because her uncle gives us his comped room. Not that we go all that often, considering my measly salary at NYLISC.

I pause a moment, watching the cards flip into each other. I have no clue what she means by riding it out. I offer a weak “Huh?”

She shakes her head, the same piece of hair escaping from
her pony tail and bobbing around as usual. “Don’t close any doors. For once, just see where it all leads without controlling it. Have fun.” She continues shuffling.

“So you’re now condoning the college boy fling?”

“So it is a fling!” She slams the cards onto the table in a motion that says, so there!

I slam on the table, too, sans cards. “So you are in love with David Nellson!”

She falls back to crossed-arms position. “Truce?”

I hold up three fingers on my left hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’re supposed to use your right hand for that.”

“Whatever. I was never a Girl Scout anyway.”

“You were a Brownie for a year. I have the pictures to blackmail you with.” She gleams triumphant while I roll my eyes. Those pictures are pretty heinous. I know, thankfully, that even she is not cruel enough to ever use them against me. Plus she knows that I have some pictures of her from her production of “Mr. Sunflower Goes To The Park” from kindergarten that she would rather not see the light of day either.

My First Legal Date After Thomas

2009-03-06T13:02:00.000-08:00

"What’s the most interesting thing about yourself?” We have been talking for hours and playing footsie. Our food is cold. I have Hawaiian chicken in front of me, but I don’t crave it. I crave what’s on the other side of the table.

He puts his fingers to his lips—very full lips—and ponders a minute. “Is? I guess it would be my name.”

We continue our game of footsie. “Steve? How is that interesting? No offense.”

“None taken. How do you spell Steve?”

“S-T-E-V-E.” I rocked at my third grade spelling bee.

“Good. Now ask me how I spell it.”

I raise an eyebrow, tip the light overhead, and lean over to interrogate. “Tell me, Officer, how do you spell Steve?”

“How? S-T-E-E-V-E.” His face falls into satisfaction at seeing mine fall into puzzlement. “See?”

“Wha... whi...” I’m trying to find the right question; there are too many to choose from.

“Someone screwed up on my birth certificate. Instead of fixing it, my parents decided to embrace it. They thought it would give me character. I would be unique.”

“Oh. That is interesting.” As interesting as it would be to see that wide chest without a shirt on.

The next morning, I wake up on Steeve’s couch, the television on blue screen, and the man with three E’s gently snoring next to me. We’re both fully clothed. He is such a gentleman and a romantic. We watched Casablanca by candlelight. The candles have all burned out. His heavy arm is still behind me.

I sniff his large frame. A hint of Aspen hits me. Do all the men I meet have to wear the same cologne? I gather my things. I’m smiling but it dwindles when I think of the beginning of last night, mid-conversation, the weird three e thing. But then I think of Jeffery Rigger, and I think of how I didn’t think of him all night.

New Sheriff In Town

2009-02-27T11:51:00.000-08:00

“Oh, good, I caught you. It’s pouring out!” A runny-mascaraed, drippy-haired, soaked-stockinged Leah pokes into my office and shakes off, bringing the chill in with her. Her red hair becomes cherry-black when it’s wet.

“Hey! What are you doing here on a Friday? Making it a habit?” I shut down my computer and wheel away from my desk. It’s been over a week since my date-not-date with Jeffery Rigger. He had stopped me after class on Monday to let me know that he usually calls the next day when he’s had a good time, but felt a little awkward about it. I melted. For that reason, I’ve avoided eye contact with him during class, and have made minimum eye contact with him afterwards. I’ve kept all this from Leah thus far; it’s getting more difficult by the day.

“Needed to pick up a few books for the weekend. Going to Pennsylvania with Robert, remember?” She drips over to the bookshelves.

“Ah, yes. The faceless Robert who has time for outlet shopping but not to meet me. I’m beginning to get a complex.”

“Oh, stop it, Roma. You’ve spoken to him on the phone!” She starts to tear books off my shelf and shove them into her slick red fake Prada.

“Is he scared of me?”

“Aren’t we all? You have the smirk that launched a thousand ships.”

“Oh, so my smirk precedes me.” I’m highly satisfied. “You going to read to each other?” I nod at the books she tore off my shelf.

“Well . . .”

I slap my forehead. “God! I was joking. Leah, you are the epitome of cheese.”

“He has a very sexy reading voice,” she insists weakly.

I stick out my tongue. “Very well, then. Have fun in the rain and cold.”

“Have fun dreaming of your jail-bait!”

I flinch to keep the words back. I’ll tell her after the weekend. She skips out of the room. I should sneak out before Cockknocker calls another meeting.

I pack three overflowing folders into my own slick green fake Prada (a gift from one of Leah’s many discount shopping sprees), throw on my coat, and grab my-—great! My umbrella is in the car.

Fuming, I gallop down two flights of stairs and slam out the door. And fall. I am on my hands and knees in a growing puddle, my bag is half open and tugging at my arm. My hair is tangled in the shoulder strap and my heel is stuck in some crack. I twist my leg and my shoe detaches from the heel, still lodged in the crack. Second pair down within a few weeks; I need to buy better quality shoes. I haven’t fallen like this since I was about seven. It hurts just the same. Actually, it hurts even worse, now that I weigh more and my pride is at stake.

I lean back to alleviate the weight on my arm. I slick my hair over to the opposite side of my head. The rain pours now, soaking through to my goosebumped skin. My teeth chatter. The rain irritates my contacts. I sniffle, only to inhale wetness. My sniffle becomes half a snort and then a sneeze. I have no tissue to wipe away the mess that just shot out of my nose so I use the sleeve of my brand new jacket to wipe up.

Then a voice distracts me. “Can I help you?” I am scared to see Jeffery Rigger. That’s just my luck. The boy who makes me feel like I’m a little girl comes to rescue me from my little-girl-like accident.

“No, no. I’ve got it all under control, Je-” I look up and stop short. It is not Jeffery Rigger. Even worse. It’s this strapping, uniformed hunk of man. Safety patrol never seemed any finer.

“If this is what you call control, I’d hate to see your chaos.” He blinds me with the blueness of his eyes. He grabs me, my bag, my shoe, and my heel in one fell swoop. He has dimples. I am sitting on a bench, unsure of how I got here. All I know for sure is that I feel all warm and tingly inside. The only other time I’ve had this feeling recently was when I gawked at Jeffery Rigger and that’s the bad time to have this feeling. Now it’s okay to have this feeling. Ahh, yes!

“I’m sorry?” He’s startled. Oh, God, I just yelled that, didn’t I?

“Oh, yes! You can help me. I’m fine,” I say nonsensically about a decibel lower.

He chuckles. I’m not sure if he finds me incredibly endearing or incredibly insane. “Where’s your car? I’ll walk you.” Ooh, endearing wins by a heel.

I refuse help, as all flirtatious women do. “No, no,” I say, negating my previous agreement to have him help me. I snatch my bag off the bench with only one strap, causing it to fall open with papers cascading out onto the wet concrete.

Hunky Campus Safety Man stretches out his hand. It’s a sexy hand. I wish that hand were grabbing me. He says, “Here, let me.” He grabs the other strap, trying to save what’s left in the bag from becoming wet mulch.

I scoot down to collect all the papers into a wad and push them, soaked, into the bag. “Nothing important. Just student stuff. Heh.” I laugh nervously, suddenly realizing that I have to pee.

“You’re a student?” He shows his dimples.

“No. Why?” I ask all defensively, grabbing my bag from him and heaving it onto my shoulder. As I do so, a button pops off my jacket. It rolls off into the bushes behind the bench.

We both watch it and neither one of us make a move for it. “Well,” he says, “you said that was all student stuff.”

“Oh, that.” I wave my hand at him. “No. I meant student papers. To grade. I should have said teacher stuff.” I glance up at him through squinted, stinging eyes. “Because I’m a teacher. Here. At NYLISC.” I glare back down and now can’t find the spot where the button stopped rolling.

“That’s what I figured when I first saw you sprawled out there.” He shifts me away from the bench. “Here, let me.” He squats and reaches under the bench in what seems to be the most uncomfortable position he’s ever been in. He brings his hand back up with my button between his index finger and thumb. “You probably want this back.” He stands fully erect as he sticks out his hand. He’s over six feet tall. Six glorious feet.

I grab it. “Yeah. Um, thanks for that.” I hold it in my hand and wrap my fist around it so tightly that I’m sure I’ll have a button imprint on my palm for hours. I cross my arms, and, as I do so, my bag drops from my shoulder and pulls my hair with it. I let out a small yelp.

“You know, we would be a lot less wet if you would just let me help you.” He grabs the bag.

“You are right.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” He ushers me towards the parking lot, half shielding me with his poncho.

He stops mid-way to the lot. “Are you hurt that badly? Should I carry you? Call an EMT?”

My brow scrunches up with confusion. “No, a bit bruised. I’m fine.” I swear, if I don’t sit soon, pee will trickle down my leg and then I’ll just have to quit and move to Uganda.

“You’re limping.”

“Am not.” In my quest to make this discussion shorter, I revert back to child-mode.

Mr. Hunky shows me his dimples again. “Are to!”

I hear my shoe scuff on the ground unevenly. “Oh, no! I’m not limping.” I kick my foot up, pointing, hopping. “The heel isn’t attached to one of my shoes.” I laugh more as he laughs, and then I stop mid-laugh as I feel my bladder contract. I grab his arm. “Let’s keep moving now.” I hobble as he holds me all the way to my car.

By the time I get on the road, my nylons are sticking to my bloody knees, my hands are numb from hitting the gravel, my shoes are broken, my make-up is gone, and I’m singing my heart out to “I Touch Myself” on the radio. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside despite the pressure on my bladder. I have a date with Officer Steve. I only pray that I don’t get a urinary tract infection before I go on that date.

Show Off

2009-02-21T06:21:00.000-08:00

“He called.” I slurp up the last of my White Zin from my plastic cup as we congregate around Jessica’s piece entitled, “Hot Bed.” It’s made from tea bags. We always tease her that her art is basically the crap that she gathers when she Spring cleans. It’s the kind of teasing that comes from jealousy. Her crap art is successful and brilliant. This show is a major step.

The girls tilt their heads in inquisitive ways at me. I had told Sophia quickly about my non-date with the student in the car, and warned her about a zillion times not to mention it in front of Jessica and Leah. I didn’t mention the Thomas phone call. It didn’t come up.

When we met up with Leah, we bullshitted about jeans and television and David Nellson. Thomas didn’t come up then either.

Then we gushed over Jessica. We gushed over art. Thomas haunted my head yet didn’t come through my mouth.

Until now. I continue to stare through the bottom of my empty cup at the floor. Sophia speaks first. “‘He’ means Thomas?” She lisps his name effeminately.

“Yup.” I rock onto my heels, setting myself off balance. New shoes. Highest heels ever, and my legs look almost as good as Leah’s do. Plus, I’m wearing her plum skirt, which helps.

Jessica is next. “He’s a scumbag.” She says it loud enough for people to pretend not to whip their heads around to see who said it. Jessica never censors herself. It’s her art show and she’ll be crude if she wants to.

My heart races with fury. I hate it when people insult him. Even if he did me wrong, it still hurts. “Don’t you have some art selling to do?” I glance up from my cup.

“Sorry, Marie.” She shrugs. Then sing-songs, “But he is.”

Sophia asks, “Did you talk to him or did he leave a message?”

“Talked.”

“And?”

“And I cut him short.”

The girls cheer.

“We nicknamed.”

The girls boo. Leah finally speaks up. “Continuing to nickname is not going to get you over him, Marie.”

I almost drop my cup and fumble for it, dripping the remaining wine on the floor. “I know that!” Of course I know that. “It slipped. He did it first!” Didn’t he?

Jessica grabs the empty cup from me and tosses it into the garbage near her. “You know how to not let it slip?”

“How, pray tell?”

“Don’t talk to the scumbag!” She waves her arms around.

At that moment, her mother, at whom Jessica rolls her eyes whenever the woman speaks, appears at Jessica’s side, brushing her elbow. “Dear, yelling that word will discourage the buyers.”

“What word? Scumbag? It’s artistic.” She drags her mom to the snack table, away from us. She doesn’t like interaction between her mother and, well, anyone.

Leah says, “On that note, I’m going to the ladies. You guys are ready to head out?” We’ve been here two hours.

Once Leah is gone, Sophia hugs my waist. “You okay?” After knowing each other forever, we’ve learned when we’re not okay. She knew I wasn’t okay as soon as she got into the car. Even when I was chatting up Jeffery Rigger, she heard something thin and hollow about my voice that anyone else probably wouldn’t have heard. She heard it the way I hear her tiny sighing whenever she mentions David Nellson and her slight tension whenever she mentions Kenneth.

I almost tear up. I will not cry over Thomas anymore. Not in public, anyway. “Uh-huh. Yeah.” I whisper it unconvincingly, with a choking sound in my throat. It’s so obvious I’m fighting myself. She was the first person I called when Thomas and I broke up. She was at my place in negative minutes. She was the first person I talked to when Thomas broke up with me a second time. I arrived at her door and said, “Thomas broke up with me.” In classic Sophia fashion, she blurted out, “Again?!” and hugged me. I laughed, and it felt good to laugh right then. It would feel good to laugh right now.

The hug gets a bit tighter. “He’s not a scumbag. He’s also not for you.” She hugs my waist until Leah comes back and we leave Jessica rolling her eyes for another few hours at her mother.

The Anatomy of Ex

2009-02-13T11:05:00.000-08:00

Sophia expects me in twenty minutes and I haven’t even showered. This is so not like me. I’m always punctual. I literally loathe late people. So now, I’m contemplating some self-loathing and some traffic loathing. I had fancied myself some sort of Moses of the Southern State until 5:02 hit and the parkway might as well have been the mall parking lot the night before Christmas. So now, I don’t have time to work out and I barely have time to shower off the grime of the day.

Plus I’m exhausted because last night was spent fighting with my sheets during stupid dreams about Thomas and Jeffery. They have never met and will never know each other. In my subconscious, though, they are best buds cracking open diet Dr. Peppers in my living room that’s not my living room but the student lounge in my undergrad dormitory. I need Jessica to analyze my dreams.

However, if I don’t kick it into high gear, she’s probably going to kill me. I’m running late for her art show. She’s aspiring to be Pollack with this show and step away from Freud completely. It’s all the way on the other side of the Island and I have to find it in the dark. Sophia better have her navigation gear revved up and ready to search this place out. We’re planning on meeting Leah there also. To add to the stress of being late, I’ve been distracted by flashbacks of the boardwalk and the bad jazz and the sexy voice of Jeffery lingering in my head compounded with my own inner voice reminding myself that I can’t tell anyone about the date in public lest I be fired.

Why is it that the phone never rings when I want it to and when it does ring, I’m naked? I grab a towel, wrap myself up as none of the shades are down and the boy next door has taken a liking to staring whenever he gets the chance, and run to the portable. It’s probably Sophia, wondering why Ms. Punctuality is not at her place yet.

I grab the phone and press TALK. “Give me ten more minutes and I’ll be there!” Who needs greetings when the clock is ticking?

“Um, hello?” Apparently, male voices who are not Sophia need greetings.

“Oh, sorry. Hello?”

“Hey. How are you?”

“Hey. Fine.” I have no idea who this is. I’m searching, trying to place the voice.

“Good to hear.”

Not Jeffery. I would recognize that slyness anytime. “Yeah. You?”

“I’ve been okay.”

Been okay? That means it’s been a while. It’s not my brother. He doesn’t go for small talk. Who? Who? “That’s good.”

“So what’s new?”

I don’t know what’s new. I don’t know who this is. To save time, I sacrifice pride. “I’m sorry. Who is this?” I shift my towel and tap my foot.

“Oh, you don’t know?”

“Why else would I be asking?” I ask exasperated.

“It’s Thomas.”

The name doesn’t register for a few seconds. I don’t want it to. My dream must have been an omen. Suddenly, I see that velvety chest, that slightly crooked tooth. I smell the Aspen and I sink into the couch, my towel falling off of my body.

A gruff voice in my ear innocently asks, “Hello? Are you there?”

I am. I’m not. I don’t want to be anywhere. I want to be away. I want it all to go away. I lose my willpower. “Yeah. Here I am.” I slump onto the arm of the couch and forget about the boy next door who is probably taking Polaroids.

“Is it okay that I called? I figured it was the best way to get in touch. I sent you email that you didn’t answer so I guessed maybe it wasn’t working.”

“Yeah. It’s fine. What’s up?” He is a dull buzz in my ear. I can barely hold the phone. My head spins. Guilt settles in my heart. I feel the need to repeat I’m sorry until I can no longer formulate words. I have nothing to be sorry for so I punctuate his voice with my own “ohs” and “hmms.”

Thomas and I had met in a bookstore in the city. It was a winter night. Bookstores on winter nights, in my imagination, had long been the perfect setting for a romantic encounter, the soundtrack of that scene changing with every new dramatic romantic song currently on the radio from Counting Crows’ “Colorblind” to “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol. When I saw his eyes peering at me through a bookshelf in the Classics section, I heard Lonestar’s “Amazed,” and I knew it was true love. We exchanged numbers and got lost in each other.

Thomas was spontaneous. Carefree. Timeless. All the things I wished I could be but my sense of responsibility held me back from being. Either despite or because of our differences, we had a blast. We drank a lot. We partied a lot. We went on vacations, we rented movies, and celebrated holidays. We were, in a word, together.

We were the odd couple at times, especially in a physical sense. At 6 foot 1, he is over a foot taller than I am and at least a hundred pounds heavier, mostly muscle. I’ve always gone for guys who are considerably larger than I am. I’m convinced it’s instinct. So if I ever get married and have kids, I won’t have scrawny runts. They’ll have a chance at being tall and not pint-sized like myself.

He drank beer. I drank fruity drinks. He listened to rap and angry white man music. I listened to pop and Top 40. He’s a righty. I’m a lefty. He’s male. I’m female. Opposite to the core. Except for the love part. We loved loved loved with passion and desire. When we were in a room together, we were the only two people on earth. All else faded away. All else grew silent. It was only us.

One day, after almost three years, Thomas lost his mind. That’s the only way to put it. He came over a different person. He accused me of cheating on him, a sure sign that he was feeling guilty for something that he had done. (I never found out what. I didn’t want to know.) He swore and spit and swore some more. His skin grew a heated purple. His body threatened to topple over onto me. His hands clenched and unclenched, trying to decide to punch something or someone. Sweat rings expanded under his arms and around his neck. His eyes threatened to pop out of his head. Not only was he not himself, he was no longer human.

I cried. I didn’t know what to say so I cowered on the couch as he paced, waved, and kicked. I gripped the roots of my hair, shook my head no no no. Who would I cheat with? When would I have the time? None of it makes sense. He screamed about his father and how I wasn’t there for him. I didn’t know what he was talking about. His father had died before we ever met.

He stomped, his big frame looming over me. His hands decided on fists. He made two large holes in the wall near my kitchen. He ripped the phone off the wall, then gently set it down on the counter. He sulked. He studied his knuckles, now bleeding. He, too, shook his head no no no. I said nothing. I stopped crying. Didn’t make a sound. He walked out without closing the door.

I called him first, which I shouldn’t have done. You never call first after a fight that he started. You never say, “I love you” first if you’re not sure you’ll hear it back. You never, ever say you’re sorry when you don’t need to be, even if you are. I made a habit of doing things I shouldn’t have done with Thomas. That includes going out with him in the first place. My sense of romance was met, but my need for intelligent conversation was lost beneath drunken nights and loud concerts. What we lacked in compatibility, we made up for under the sheets and on top of the sheets and in the shower and on the kitchen counters, and, well, you get the picture. So after that fight that he started for no reason other than that he was suddenly insane, I called him first. I was worried about him. He needed to see a doctor about his wounds.

We made up. Things between us weren’t the same after that fight. He became paranoid when I wouldn’t call him back right away. He thought I had poisoned his dog when Spike got sick. He continuously changed the passwords to his voicemail and email because he thought I would figure them out and go through his messages, even though he had nothing to hide. Then he would get mad and break things when he couldn’t retrieve his messages because he couldn’t remember which passwords he was using. When I asked him what happened to him, he would ask what happened to me. I worried about him every second of the day. I began losing my mind too.

I left after three years, two months, one week, five days, four hours, four minutes, and 59 seconds. Or did he leave me? Maybe we just broke away from each other. I really don’t know.

I was fine. I didn’t cry. It was more of a relief than anything. He was nuts, and I couldn’t be in love with crazy. I had fallen out of love when he railed against me that first night. I fell out of like when he kept up his antics. He gave me agita. There was no longer a reason to stay. I began to love my single life. I remembered how good it could be to be out with friends more than once a week, to go home and read a book instead of giving a back rub, to watch a subtitled movie without pausing to keep up with the dialogue, and to have a routine for myself without a pop-in from him. I didn’t hear from Thomas for three solid months.

Then he called and left a message. “Hey, sweet Marie. It’s me. I miss you.”

I hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, neither had he—-he had just gone insane. Hearing his small voice, knowing it came out of such a big man, killed me. I felt guilty for leaving him alone in a cruel, harsh world. I had left him when his head wasn’t fit to deal with normalcy. I was guilty of neglect. I took him back even though I was broken. Maybe it was because I was broken, and when Thomas was involved, I had no willpower.

Of course, we broke up again. He left me--that I’m sure of. Just one day, left me a voicemail saying that it wasn’t working. It had been only two weeks. That’s when I cried. I had never been rejected before. I had always been the breaker, not the breakee. I cried, probably, more because my ego was crushed than my heart broken. Then, he called two weeks after that and wanted to patch things up. I felt like I needed to give him yet another chance. This is about the time Sophia and Leah and Jessica became crusaders of my heart. “What are you nuts?!?! You don’t owe him anything!” “Do not call him! You don’t have to apologize for anything!” “He did this. Not you.” “Protect your heart.” “You should go to the strip club with me.” Elena used the answer-your-own-questions routine so I would figure things out for myself: “Do you want to get back with him?” “Is that the best thing for you?” The encouragement, the questions, and the strippers were all the antidote for fallen love. All that and screaming “I wanna push you way down! I wanna push you around! I wanna take you for granted” with MB20 non-stop in my car. I moved on. Never called him.

Then he emailed me. I didn’t answer. And now, he’s in my ear like an old friend chatting it up just like old times. He doesn’t sound like crazy Thomas. He sounds like bookstore-three-years-ago Thomas. He works as a private eye. He knows how to trick a polygraph so I’m sure he could probably fool me. Maybe, on some level, he did. It was probably all just one elaborate ruse. I bet I never really knew him at all.

“Hey, Thomas?” I cut him off mid-sentence. “I’m actually running late for something. Can I call you back?”

“Oh, sure. Where you going?”

“My friend’s art show. I’m running late already so.” I pick up my towel and drape it around me once more.

“No need to explain. Just call me when you get a chance.”

“Sure. Yeah.”

“Okay, sweet Marie.”

“Thanks, Sir Thomas.”

“Have fun. Call me.”

“Kay.”

I’ve reverted back to nicknames and promises in under ten minutes. At least I didn’t apologize to him. I’ll owe the gals a major apology and a piss-poor excuse that I’ll conjure up as I shower off the grime of it all.

I walk back to the bathroom and see out of the corner of my eye a tiny head duck beneath a window sill across from my window. Ah, every kid deserves a free show every now and then.

Quick Call, Quick Fall

2009-02-07T07:20:00.000-08:00

I find the voicemail light blinking on my home phone as I slip inside my warm home. I play the message and hear this:

Hi, Cinderella. It’s your Knight, Sir Cabbie, from Cash Cab. You know, the game show you were on in the cab. Why am I explaining this? I mean, how many times has a game show ambushed you in a cab? Wow, I had this whole thing planned out and now I sound like a jackass. Anyway, I’m calling because I said that I would call you and I wanted you to know that I still think you’re really cool and I really would like to see you sometime, but, unfortunately, the show is moving to another city for another season and I would tell you where but I can’t because everything around production is always top secret, as if anyone cares. But I have a boss who seems to be like yours and if she finds out that I let it leak, then I’m canned and I love my job. After all, I met you, right? So I hope you don’t hate me for not calling sooner and I hope you’re doing well and I hope you don’t mind if I call or email once in a while to say hey and I guess that’s it so take care, Cinderella.

That was sweet yet he didn’t leave a number. He didn’t leave a name. The show had aired a few weeks ago. It plays on reruns sometimes, and although family and friends have seen it, no student has brought it up yet. I’m pretty sure I’m in the clear. I save the message because I always save sweet messages to play for everyone else in my life who should hear messages meant for my ears only.

I go on to the next one which goes a little something like this:

Albert Brickman here. Calling for Marie Roma. Wondering if you would be up for drinks some time this week. Gimme a buzz. You have the office number I’m sure through your friend Sophie.

Arrogant. Jerk. He doesn’t even get Sophia’s name right. Since the standing-up, Sophia has taken to personally making his life a living hell at the office. This means moving things around on his desk. She found out from his assistant that he’s a bit OCD when it comes to organization. She takes great pleasure in moving his plant to the other side of the desk and rearranging the files in his drawers so they’re no longer alphabetical. His assistant helps her out.

I save that message as well and move into my bedroom to peel off all my clothes. They really all do come out of the woodwork at once.

My First Non-Date After Thomas (Definitely Not A Date--Or Is It?--Oh, Hell!)

2009-01-17T11:32:00.000-08:00

I am thirteen, peering over the hedges at Billy O’Reilly’s house, knees shaking, hoping to get a glimpse of his hot bod as he takes out the trash, and praying that he does it soon so I get home in time for 5:30 dinner, or else my mom will be pissed and I’ll be forced to eat cold, glutinous pasta.

Actually, I’m parked on the wrong side of the street down the block from off-campus housing with the motor running, my heart in my dry, dry throat, knuckles becoming white from the kung-fu grip I have on my steering wheel. My window is open for fresh air to keep me from passing out and in case I need to vomit. I don’t think I will—-I already had dry heaves for an hour and a half at home. I almost called the whole thing off. My better judgment told me to do so and the maybe-near-miss with Cockknocker in the city heightened my sense of paranoia, assuming that she’s anywhere and everywhere, trying to catch me doing something wrong so she can fire me. Yet now, I’m here. Stomach in knots. The numbers on the dashboard flip minute by ever-lasting minute. No sign of him.

I left my house extra early because I’m always extra early. Despite that, I arrived only one minute early because I got lost. The one thing I’ve learned about Long Island ever since I started driving is that, much unlike the city’s helpful grid, the streets are a swirling maze. I never have a map. I have a compass that I don’t know how to use. I have the worst sense of direction; I get trapped in mall parking lots. So there I was, cruising the Southern State, all happy and rockin’ out to some retro-eighties broadcast with Duran Duran, until I got off the parkway. I made a left when I should have gone straight. So I made another left and a right to try to correct my error. I drove the wrong way down a one-way street and entered a Do Not Enter.

I clicked off the radio. Apparently, no music makes me find my way better. I crouched over the steering wheel, squinted at every street sign, cursed every street lamp that went out when I tried to see where the hell I was. I held up my right fist and growled, “Damn you, streets of suburbia!” which gave the police officers who pulled up alongside me something to chuckle at. One motioned for me to roll down my window.

I complied. “Yes, officer?”

“You lost?” He held back a laugh.

“Yes, officer.”

“Where you headed?”

When I’m lost, my logic gets away from me. I thought, for sure, if I mentioned the street that student housing was on, he would automatically, without question, report me to NYLISC and send me to jail for sleeping with a student.

So I mumbled, “The college. I work there. I took a wrong turn in the dark and got all turned around.”

He continued grinning. “You’re headed in the right direction. Keep going straight and you’ll see signs.” He pulled away before I could thank him.

I went straight. Found the signs. Found the street to student housing. Parked on the wrong side of the street.

I can see Jeffery’s house from here. It’s glowing. Every light in the house must be on. Silhouettes decorate every window. I imagine music in every room; they probably aren’t listening to “Hungry Like The Wolf.” They’re probably blasting some rap-hip-hop reggatone that I would listen to only at a club. Guaranteed, someone in there is stressing over a paper that’s due and won’t print. Someone is eating cookie dough ice cream half melted from a broken freezer. Someone is rolling a joint. Most of them are doing the things they promised their parents they specifically would not do. At least two of them are having sex, either with each other, or mutually exclusively alone. That’s how it always was when I was in college which seems so long ago. Even though it’s not so long ago. In the face of all this, I have nostalgia for my college years. Is that why I’m here?

I should shift into drive and go as if I had never been here. This is absolutely insane. What am I . . .?

“Hey, gorgeous.” Flowers are under my nose. He’s crouched down on the matted grass. I’m allergic to flowers. I am going to sneeze in his ear and then, most likely, pee in my pants.

This should be romantic. However, my neurotic side focuses on the footprints he’ll leave as evidence in the soft ground. Instead of saying, “aww, how sweet,” I shift into NARC-getaway car-secret service mode. Grab the flowers. Unlock the doors.

“Get in! Get in!” I jerk my head at the passenger side door and sneeze as I throw the bouquet into the backseat. I shift my weight to check—No, I have not peed myself.

He, apparently in Bobby McFerrin-don’t worry-be happy- hakuna matata-Lion King mode, strolls around the front of the car way too slowly for my neurotic taste. I watch him through watery eyes, trying not to sneeze any more because next time I may pee and have wet pants for the rest of our not-a-date date.

As he jerks the door open, I’m tempted to speed away while I still have time, taking the allergy inducing flowers with me as a token of what could have been. His scent proves too much for me and I don’t want to rip off his perfectly sculpted arm. He slides in casually. He gives me a kiss, no, a peck, on the cheek, which lasts less than a nanosecond because I give us both whiplash, slamming the car into gear and stomping down on the gas. Zero to official fraternization in half a second flat.

* * * * * * * * * *

Jeffery Rigger has interesting hands. They aren’t beefy, blocky man-hands. They aren’t gawky, extra-long fingered, effeminate hands. They are perfect, smooth, clean-fingernailed hands. They are so interesting that he has not stopped staring at them since we got out of the car and I dragged him like an unruly child into the farthest, darkest corner of the seediest, diviest jazz club the outskirts of Long Island has to offer. We haven’t spoken much to each other. We’ve ordered drinks and chips and dip from the black-clad, beret-wearing waiter who has a Tom Selleck mustache with Frank Sinatra eyes and a Barbara Streisand attitude. The diva of the wait staff comes over when he can pencil us in between primping and preening. I know this because I can see directly into the doorless men’s room that has half a broken mirror hanging on the molded wall under a dimming florescent bulb. Diva Man has become the fairytale witch, the mirror, I assume, proclaiming him the prettiest waiter in all of jazz.

We do not like jazz. We’re here because we didn’t have a plan. Well, we had a plan, not about what to do when we went out. We had an intricate ten-step plan complete with maps and blueprints, mileage measurements, and wardrobe—-and a 20-step emergency back-up plan—-for meeting without anyone seeing us. Which car? Who would drive? What time does the sun go down? Will we be covered enough by nightfall alone? Should we wear ski masks? (That was my suggestion. Jeffery swayed against it on the off chance that someone would assume we were casing houses and we would be arrested on attempted robbery—then we’d be caught before we even had a chance to do anything illegal.)

The actual “What do we do once we’ve successfully gotten out on the road unnoticed?” never came up. After he recovered from the whiplash, and after we found a 7-11 to ditch the flowers and buy me some tissues and a fake red rose with a tiny bear attached (“I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about allergies.”), we fell into an uncomfortable-giggling, awkward-pausing, haltered, stuttering pattern as I wove in and out of lanes on the parkway. The tension intensified when he started asking about due dates for the next two assignments.

After snapping, “Don’t you even look at your syllabus?!,” I cut him off with, “Pick a number!”

He randomly yelled, “Forty-two!”

So I veered off at Exit 42, found the most broke down building, and decided this would be our hang out spot. He nodded okay.

Here we are, him staring at his hands, me watching the waiter slick down his sculpted brows with a lick of his fingers. I will not be eating anymore. Where’s the chemistry we had in Gramp Lecture Hall 5? This is ridiculous. I should have known this would happen. I really am thirteen and the only reason I’m here is Billy O’Reilly left a note in my locker saying I’m cute.

I push away the chips, figuring out how to say it’s time to go without saying it’s time to go. The drunken sax player is kicking—-yes, kicking-—the cymbals. He is so drunk that drool drips from the reed. I inhale to speak but—

“You’re the saxiest woman in here.” Jeffery’s lips are in my ear. I laugh louder than the sax-cymbals fiasco.

I meet him nose to nose. “That was bad.”

“Not worse than the past hour and fifteen minutes we’ve been here.”

I ask, “It’s been only an hour and fifteen minutes? Are you serious?”

He slides his arm around me. “Ah, a date with me is timeless. Gimme your keys.” He drops a wad of cash on the table, takes my hand, and now he pulls me to the car, shoves me in, and drives to the boardwalk.

The season has indeed changed fully from Summer and Indian Summer into full-fledged Autumn. Actually, it feels as if Autumn has been skipped over and we were shoved right into Winter. At least, that’s how it feels on the boardwalk. My teeth chatter as Jeffery talks about his Uncle Louie and something about a boat. He stops himself short—“You cold, Professor?”

I stop walking. “This is wrong,” I blurt out.

He comes around to the front of me. “You’re right.”

My heart stops and my body trembles, not from the cold, only from the realization that I have gone too far. I can’t take back what I just said and I ruined what hasn’t even really begun. Typical of all my relationships. Typical with my life. This is good ruination because this truly is wrong.

Jeffery continues. “I am so wrong. You should be wearing this.” He swings his coat off of his shoulders and wraps it around mine. “Now, it’s all good.”

My heart beats to life, back up to my throat. How can this be real? How can I be so weak that I’m falling for all his tricks? Are these tricks at all? Maybe he’s being sincere. Maybe this is for real and that old saying that age is only a number is more than an old saying. It could be my reality.

“You know, if you don’t stop mumbling, I’m gonna have to kiss you.” I die a slow, mortified death, realizing that everything I thought I was just thinking, I had been saying under my breath.

To cover it all up, I say, “Kiss me anyway. We’ve come this far.”

My heart trips into palpitations as he tilts my head up and plants one right on my forehead.

I grab his wrists, not to take them away, to hang on tight before I slip away with the romance of it all. I whisper, “This is more of that raging against the dying light?” We stare at each other. His eyes smolder. I’ve never known what smoldering eyes were until I saw his.

“Dylan Thomas was one smart man,” he answers. I draw his hand away from my cheek and kiss his palm.

He brings his other hand down, grabs mine, and we walk back towards the parking lot.

Under the cover of night, without ski masks or bad jazz, he talks about his dog named Cheetah and his family from the Jersey shore and his romp across Europe. He recalls reading Hemingway as he was in Barcelona and how it felt so surreal. I tell him about my drive up into the Alps to see Neuschwanstein Castle in the snow. We quote lines from movies and songs and outdo each other with Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. All the while I’m thinking, he called this a date! My heart pounds during the drive home, and then in the car a block away from off-campus housing.

The numbers on the dashboard flicker rapidly, one after another after another, racing for sunrise. We sit with me chattering on about exactly what the objective correlative is and how Eliot came up with it. He says he feels sad whenever he hears the word ruins. I tell him that he’s as smart as Eliot. He answers, “And as sexy, too.” That leads us to a semi-awkward silence, followed by muted laughs.

“A great time,” he says mostly to himself but out loud. He pecks me on the cheek. He squeezes my hand. He slides out of the car. “Bye, Professor Roma. See you Monday.”

His tight jeans meander away into the dark.

Cockknocker Knocks More Than Once

2009-01-09T10:53:00.000-08:00

“So, Professor, what you’re saying is that actors in Shakespeare’s day like, you know, had no, you know, um, balls?” Malcolm Lincoln blushes and peers down at his lap and then past me, out the window, as he makes this revelation. He’s in the dippity-doo chair. Shaquana Dally, quick to the rescue, corrects him with a hushed scolding of “Testicles. Say testicles.” Lucy Lim, says astounded, “You mean they castrated these guys on stage?” She belongs in the dippity-doo chair; alas, I have only one today. Bobby Kline hid the other.

Usually, I can keep a straight face no matter what my students throw at me; however, that one sends me reeling. “No!” I laugh out. The thought of public castration as entertainment is intriguing though not factual. I want to say, “Yup, they sure did. Then they used the genitalia as props,” but I can’t keep a straight face to say that, either.

Malcolm gives Lucy a light shove in the arm. “No way would they do that, doof.”

“Shut up, Malcolm. Like you really know.” Lucy blushes now, too.

Shaquana still keeps a level head. “So no women, basically, is what you’re saying, Professor.”

I nod. “Yup. No women. Go rent Shakespeare in Love. It’ll give you better understanding.” They all nod, smiling at the thought of a movie.

“So any other questions?” They shake no and pile on the layers. My office, as usual, is a sauna, and my students have stripped down to the bare minimum. I’m rather cozy with steam spitting from the radiator.

Malcolm comments, “Dang, it’s hot in here. You should call maintenance.”

“Tell me about it,” I answer.

“You want me to get on that for you, Professuh?” He flashes me a flirty-goofy smile. “How much extra credit?”

Ha! “None, but you’ll have my undying gratitude and admiration.”

Shaquana rolls her eyes. “He’s always scheming,” she shakes her head as Lucy reaches for the door.

As they shuffle out of my office, a sharp knock beats them to the door. They stop in their tracks. I urge, “Go ahead. Open it. You have to do that to leave anyway.”

“Okay. Bye, Professor,” they say in unison and I hear Malcolm say something about me being mad crazy. They swap places with a very disheveled Cockknocker. I have avoided her all week, unsure if she recognized that it was me peeing in the NYC alley or if it really was her who saw me. She’s out of breath in her florescent green snakeskin flats and magenta wool suit. Not exactly pretty. Not exactly GAP, either.

As I’m about to bring up this breach of policy, she beats me to the punch. “Personal delivery.” She semi-joyously waves a piece of paper. This has to be another idiotic memo. If she was going to hand deliver it anyway, why waste the paper? Just friggin’ tell me.

I put on my shit-eating grin. “Thanks so much. What is it?” If it were about the peeing incident, I doubt she would have memoed it to me. She would have called me into her office to berate and fire me.

She fake-smiles and snaps her fingers. “Oh, just a little note about our new dress code.”

I slump down with relief that it’s not about the city incident. Maybe I was drunker than I though and it hadn’t been her. “You mean the GAP?” I ask.

“No.” She shakes her head violently.

My eyes go wide. “Not the GAP?”

Again with the head shake. “No. Not the GAP. Our new policy.”

My eyes squint. “I thought that is the new policy.”

Cockknocker nods. “It was. Until this.” She points at the paper. I’m tempted to ask if our new policy involves wearing the paper.

I hold the memo up in front of me. “I guess I’ll have to read it then.”

She snorts, “Or you could wait for the movie to come out.”

That could be a joke; nonetheless, she’s not laughing so I simply maintain my shit-eating grin and nod vigorously. “Right. I’ll read it.” I hold it up higher to block her out.

Instead of walking out, she remains stock-still about half a foot from me. “Let me ask you something, Professor Roma.” Her voice is monotone and her eyeglasses are smudged.

I don’t answer. I let her continue. She starts, “Correct me if I’m wrong. I just heard you talking about Shakespeare to your students.”

I lower the paper onto my lap. It can wait. I have no idea where this conversation is headed, but I have a feeling I’m going to have a story to tell the rest of the department after it. I say, “Yes.”

She puts her fingers to her chin, shifts her weight to one hip, and asks, “Why?”

Is this a trick question? Can a one-word question even be a trick question? I answer with honesty in the hopes of avoiding whatever it is she’s getting at. “I teach a class in Shakespeare. You know that.” I shouldn’t have added that last part. I couldn’t help myself. She’s asking stupid questions. I know there’s a saying that there are no stupid questions. Whoever said that never met my boss.

She says, “Well, yes. That’s the class you defiantly showed the movie in, correct?”

Now that’s a trick question. She’s trying to get me to admit to being defiant on purpose. No way. So I say, “That’s the class I showed the movie to. It was Romeo and Juliet. It’s Shakespearean. I will no longer show movies to that class.” I have no more planned for that class this semester.

She agrees, “Yes. I’m sure you learned. What I want to know is why you were talking to your students about genitals.”

Shit. She must have been standing outside listening to Malcolm, Lucy, and Shaquana talk about castration. I explain exactly that conversation and ask if that’s why she’s asking. She says, “It doesn’t matter how I know. What matters is that you’re not supposed to be discussing erotica.”

“Right!” I say with enthusiasm. This throws her for a loop. Apparently with all my defiance as of late, she wasn’t expecting agreement.

Flustered, she says, “Okay. Tally-hoo!” She stalks out to pounce upon yet another unsuspecting soul. Then she sticks her head back in to say, “And remember about the memo.” She points at my lap and then disappears.

I ponder the meaning of Tally-hoo. I wonder if I’m getting another letter in my file about genitalia. Then I rotate the paper around in my lap.

TO: The English Department
FROM: Professor Clepper, Department Chair
RE: Dress Code
To make our faculty more student friendly, we need to ingratiate ourselves with our student population. However, we should not blend in with our students. A recent survey of our students discovered that the GAP is the most popular clothing store at this juncture. Therefore, all faculty must cease and desist wearing any clothing from the GAP stores. If you have purchased any new GAP wardrobe for our last policy, I’m sure you can return it. If not, consider it a gift to yourself.

Further proving my point that she’s nuts. I’m not the only one who thinks so. Within five minutes, my office becomes the Ziggy’s complaint desk. For once, all six of us (Norma, Susie, Michael, Jerry, Brenda, and me) are together. Whenever this rare occasion happens, we find ourselves doing the same thing: complaining.

Michael is the most miserable of us all. He actually bought some GAP stuff “to be on the safe side.” He leans defeated against a bookshelf and then says, “I even had Jude accompany me to help me pick out exactly what constitutes work wear.” Jude is his sixteen-year-old son who I’m sure didn’t have shopping with Dad at the top of his list of things to do this fall.

Jerry lays a sympathetic hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Now it’s a gift to yourself and your son. Regard the experience as bonding.”

At this, we all crack up. Susie perks up, reaching up to put a hand on Jerry’s shoulder. “We should all go out. You know, as a department.”

Norma asks what we’re all wondering. “Will alcohol be available?”

Susie nods vigorously. “That should go without saying.”

Brenda joins in the nodding. “You’ll find me there. Name the place and time.”

I check the clock and calculate how long it would take me to sober up for my night class if I were to start drinking. Aw, to hell with that. The kids come in high anyway. “How about now? We’ll go to Fiesta’s.”

We ruffians file out of my office with visions of nachos and margaritas dancing in our heads. On the way, I tell them the sad tale of genitalia and Shakespeare and defiance. They commiserate and console. Brenda offers her own tale of how she nearly escaped the claws of Cockknocker because of a malfunctioning DVD player. Lucky.

~Academic Interlude~

dear prof. roma
my car brook up on the way up here but I rushed in to school as quickly as possible. I wanted to give you my Project #3 and I went to your office to heck if you were still there but you weren’t there, then I went to heck entire school after you but no luck. Later again I tried my luck by going to your office but the other professor that was there told me that you went home and she told me to E-male you. Then I went to the library and I wrote you this E-male. Im grateful that you took your time for reading this E-male.
Sincerely from business ethics class.

______________________________________________________________________
Hello,
1. I’m not sure who you are as you signed your email with the name of a class.
2. I do not teach the class you signed as your name.
3. Emails have no gender.
4. Project #3 in my Shakespeare class is due at the end of the semester. If you’re in that class, you’re way ahead because I have not yet given out the assignment sheet for it.
Best,
Prof. Roma

Cash Cow

2009-01-02T07:38:00.000-08:00

The unmistakable pangs of anxiety, excitement, and horniness overcame me as soon as Jeffery Rigger left the bar, waving at me and the gals after offering his hand in a firm shake to the bartender, telling him to take care of his ladies. Take care he did. How the three of us got out here to the curb, I don’t know. Sophia barely got all the items back into her purse before she knocked it over and everything fell out about three more times. Elena no longer could balance sitting on the stool so she took to standing and leaning against the back of it. We were in a high traffic area, so she got jostled around pretty much every second and took to leaning on strangers for support as they walked by.

I, too, was experiencing blurred vision, slurred speech, and a bout of not having any feet because I couldn’t feel them. After suddenly regaining sensation, I noticed one of my shoes was missing. When 3:31 rolled around, we somehow got to the bathroom and peed without peeing on ourselves. Somehow, most likely with the help of the bar staff, we got to the street. On the way out, I found my shoe sans heel. I picked it up and carried it with me outside. I figured the fresh air would sober me up enough to make it to Penn without worry.

So far, it has not. Hailing a cab when you can barely lift your arm for fear of falling over while wearing only one shoe is no easy task. I grab Sophia’s elbow for support. She sways and clutches a parking meter. She epitomizes serenity as she hugs the meter, wrapping one leather-panted leg around the pole and both now-sleeveless arms around the meter part of it. She took off everything on top except a tiny tank top because she was just too hot. She finds bliss as she shuts her eyes, eyeliner slightly smeared under her lids.

Seeing that she’s no help, I grab onto Elena who’s on her cell, cooing at her husband. She leans her velvety purple pants on a parked car and steadies herself by placing a booted foot among huge black trash bags piled next to the car. No help there either.

I hop out from between the parked cars, leaning on the one Elena is not leaning on, and swing my bag back and forth towards the street, hoping a taxi driver will catch a glimpse of me in my desperate-to-get-home-and-out-of-my-one-heel state.

After about an hour-long-minute of Sophia slumping further down along the parking meter and Elena settling comfortably into the garbage heap, a taxi-van pulls up along side of us. “Thank you thank you!” I gush, flinging open the door. “We’re going to Penn,” I yell to give the driver a heads up while whirling away to rally up the troops.

“Let’s go, Soph,” I gently urge my sleepy friend. She doesn’t respond in any way. I have a feeling she’s passed out in standing position. I pry her leg from around the pole and uncross her arms from around the double-headed meter. “Into the cab,” I say as her eyes slowly open. She squints at the open door, eyes the cab from front to back, turns her head, and pukes next to the meter.

In no time, the driver has left the three of us stranded. I hold back Sophia’s hair as she semi-squats, knees knocked together, fingers around her throat, her bag swinging dangerously near the strands of spit that hang from her mouth to the puke-pool on the sidewalk.

Instead of helping, Elena narrates the events to Jack with a concerned screeching only a drunk girl could produce. “Oh, Jack, she’s keeled over! . . .No . . . No. . . Marie has it.”

With one more heave, Sophia’s knees buckle and she sits Indian-style on the cold, dirty sidewalk, staring ahead of her. Her bag has opened. This time only half the contents fall out. While the fresh air has not been sobering, the noxious odor of regurgitated alcohol certainly is doing the trick. My alcoholic bigger-than-a-buzz has almost completely worn off, and I’m no longer finding even the slightest bit of amusement in losing my shoe. I let go of Sophia’s hair when she nudges me away. I step back from them both. Sophia’s sitting on the ground next to a meter she had been practically humping, in front of a pile of puke. Elena is now slumped down against the bumper of a beat-up car, her leg knee-high in mystery trash.

I snap a quick picture with my cell phone camera on night vision, and regain my stance between the two cars. We need to get to Penn to catch the next train home, and I need proof that the two of them owe me big time. I should be on cloud nine about meeting up with my prime piece of meat somewhere in the future. Instead, I’m juggling drunk friends and hopping on one foot.

Thankfully, another taxi-van pulls up after much bag swinging and hollering. Sophia has regained leg function, has cleaned up all her belongings, and even popped a mint. Elena is still on her phone, no longer standing in garbage. As I open the door to the cab and yell, “Penn!” the gals seem to be heading towards sobriety. Incredible tiredness sets in as I climb in last. Elena yells into her phone, “Cab’s here okay byeeeee!” and snaps it shut.

As my eyes are about to close for the short ride, I see a flash of colored lights blaring around the cab. Oh, no, no, no. I am way too sober to puke. What the hell is happening? Sophia and Elena simultaneously say, “What’s with the lights?” as a tiny musical jingle comes out from the front of the cab. So it’s not just me. Still, I’m not as sober as I thought I was. The colors whirl and blur together. The jingle pierces through my skull. I realize that I have cotton mouth already as I try to ask along with the girls what the lights are all about.

The driver, a young white guy surprisingly, curls around his seat and announces, “Welcome to the Cash Cab. We’re a game show and we want you to win money as you ride!” No friggin way. Only in New York. Only on a night of luck constantly wavering between good and bad. Only on a night when we’re all so smashed that we can’t think straight.

I lick my lips to try to moisten them best I can and answer, “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” and he says, “What? You don’t want to play? We’ve already got cameras on you!” He’s half joking, half pleading as he points to what is a small camera mounted on the ceiling in the front of the cab. I attempt to look at the ceiling but green and blue and yellow lights all flash around in a box pattern against the gray. Whirl and blur. Whirl and blur. That’s never a good thing after drinking.

He goes on to explain to us three drunken broads the rules of the game. I squint, thinking that somehow adjusting my vision will sober me up. I turn to see Sophia doing the same exact thing. Elena is rocking back and forth. I’m pretty sure that’s not the motion of the car but is her own doing, trying to stay awake and sober up. The driver is saying something about red lights and challenges and three strikes when he stops mid-sentence and asks, “You all okay back there? You ready to play?”

Sophia gives a weak, “You betcha,” throwing her fist forward in a gung-ho motion but it doesn’t quite make it all the way. She punches the air, actually, and her hand falls fast into her lap.

Elena stops rocking and simply nods. I do the same, squinting.

The cabbie pulls over to the curb and stops the lights. Thank you, Jesus, for making him stop the lights. I always get holy when I’m trying not to vomit. He shakes his head and chuckles. I ask, “whatcha laughin’ at?” in my most girlish voice, showing that I know exactly what he’s laughing at. Us.

“You three want to take a minute and maybe a sip of water?” He turns fully around, unbuckling and shifting in the driver’s seat. He hands us a closed bottle of water. “We can stop rolling for a few seconds if you really want to play.” Then he fiddles with an earpiece before taking it out. He has long fingers, manly fingers. They blur together as I squint and readjust my sight.

“Voice of God?” Sophia asks, nodding at the earpiece.

“If you consider God and my boss one and the same, then sure.” He dangles the earpiece near his ear, not putting it back in yet.

“The boss telling you to kick us out?” I ask, my mouth returning to normal instead of cottony as I sip the water I cracked open.

He nods and then shakes his head. “Bosses are bosses.”

Elena breaks her silent swaying to laugh loudly. “Is your boss a cockknocker like hers?” She takes the water from me and downs half the bottle.

“Cockknocker? Now that’s a phrase I needed to learn!” He laughs. “You almost ready to go?”

Sophia drinks some water and then punches into the air once more. “You betcha!” It’s not so pathetic this time.

Suddenly, we’re all awake and excited at the perspective of not only having a free cab ride back to the train station, but also being able to GAIN money on the way. And it’s not as if we have to split any money; we EACH get money. All we have to do is answer some trivia questions, the dollar amounts for each question going up as the time of the ride winds down. Three wrong answers, though, and we lose the money as well as get kicked out of the cab. In that case, money is no longer the incentive; the ride is. There’s no way I’ll hail a third cab down and make it to the station in time to catch the next train.

“Here’s the best part,” the cabbie continues as he replaces the earpiece and buckles up, “you’ll get to be on television.” On any other day, I’d be like, that’s very cool. However, right now, we don’t really look our best. I’m guessing I’m about as smashing as Sophia and Elena right now with runny make-up, frizzy hair, and wrinkled shifted-out-of-place clothes. Plus, what if students see this?

“What channel?” I inquire.

“Discovery,” he answers.

I sigh with relief. None of my students would watch that. I doubt my Chair owns a tv so on with the game.

The driver gleams at us and asks, “What famous American history personage said, ‘Give me liberty or give me death?’”

Elena touches her cheeks. “Ooh, that’s a good one.” Her speech still slurs a little. I’m not sure how well this is going to go, but still, we have nothing to lose. “Isn’t that that guy in that Mel Gibson movie?”

Sophia and I raise our eyebrows, shrugging. Sophia, now more alive than she had been since before her first drink, asks, “What movie? The Patriot?”

I crane my neck to them in the back bench. “Was Mel Gibson even in that?”

Ignoring my question, Elena waves her hand in the air. “No, no. That movie, Lionheart.”

Even the cabbie can’t keep it together. He recovers and says, “I need an answer soon.”

Sophia, movie-maven, smacks Elena’s arm. “You mean Braveheart! That was about the Irish and he says, ‘You’ll never take my freedom,’ which has nothing to do with this!”

Suddenly, a name pops into my brain. “Is it Shawn Patrick Henry?”

Elena and Sophia’s light bulbs go off. Elena says, “Oh,yeah, Shawn Patrick Henry.”

Again Sophia scoffs, “Um, no-oo. It’s just Patrick Henry. Who the hell is Shawn?”

My shoulders go all the way up. “I have no idea. At least I knew the answer wasn’t Braveheart Mel Gibson.” I point at Elena.

“It was a good guess,” she insists.

The cabbie, highly amused by now, asks, “So is Patrick Henry your answer?”

“YES!” we three shout.

“Correct!” he shouts. We earn $25 each. Onto the next question.

“Name two bosses Elaine has had on the sitcom Seinfeld.”

I jump out of my seat towards the front, yelling, “Mr. Pitt and Peterman! Mr. Pitt and Peterman!” It’s about time my useless Seinfeld knowledge pays off. I’m so proud that even at 4 AM, I know my stuff.

“Correct,” says the driver. “Please don’t make me veer off the road.” He laughs even more.

“Sorry. Keep going,” I say, sitting back down with the gals patting me on the shoulder.

Three more questions of $100 each, and we are rolling in the dough. We have good luck all around because we know different kinds of stuff, especially Elena who wrenches out an answer about where a certain kind of tea that I had never heard of came from (Answer: India). Before the driver can ask the next question, a panic falls over Elena.

“Tea makes me wanna pee,” she whines. At the mention of pee, I feel my bladder throbbing, too.

Sophia wags a finger. “We’re in the middle of a game!”

The cabbie, happier and finding more amusement in this than he ever has before, says, “I’ll pull over. Do what you gotta do quick.” He catches my eyes in the rearview.

I say, “May as well,” and climb out.

Sophia, shocked, tugs on Elena’s sleeve as Elena tries to climb over her to get out. “You guys can’t pee here! It’s illegal and cold.”

I jut out my chin as I haul Elena from the cab. “This coming from the girl who just sexual abused a parking meter and then barfed on it to boot.”

She slinks back into the seat as we vanish into the shadows. We assume wide squatting stances and let it all loose with a relief-filled “Ahhhhhhh.” In the last moments of my tinkle, my stream stops as I nervously clench up. As Elena stands, I whisper, “Is someone watching us?”

Alarmed, Elena whips her gaze towards the street as she jumps to zip up and says, “You know, I think there’s a little old lady watching from across the street.”

Sure enough I see someone hunched, peering. The cabbie notices and pulls up further to block the line of sight. Too freaked out to finish my last drippy drops, I shake off and zip up. We pile back into the Cash Cab and the driver takes his time to settle us back into the game. All the while, I adjust my vision and then gasp.

They all stop chattering and Sophia asks, “What’s wrong?”

“It can’t possibly be,” I mumble, stretching over to the other side of the cab. “It’s way too late for the old bat to be awake.”

Elena puts her head next to mine. “Who? You know her?”

I sit back down. “Drive! Drive!” I nudge the cabbie with my fingers. He pulls away slowly as the girls keep asking who it is while trying to get a good look for themselves at the hunchback.

The cabbie keeps driving, and asks, “What’s the rush? Time is money, remember.”

“Yes, but if my boss figures out it’s me who was just peeing in that alley, I might not be making any money any more.”

All at once, the cabbie, Sophia, and Elena shout, “Your boss?!” and then the cabbie adds, “The cockknocker boss?”

“Yup. Had to be. No one else can stare quite so hard in an uncomfortable way. I knew she lived in the city. What she would be doing up at this God-awful hour, I have no idea.” Then I tap the back of the driver’s seat. “Good usage of the term cockknocker.”

Sophia laughs, “You always say she’s a bloodsucker. Maybe she really is a vampire.”

Elena continues, “Wow, she’s not much to shake a stick at. When I first saw her, I thought she was homeless.”

“God, I hope she didn’t see me.” I’m not having fun anymore.

Sophia, still unconvinced says, “Are you really, really sure?”

I cluck my tongue. “Why is it so hard to believe it was her? I’ve told you guys a zillion times how wacky she is.”

Sophia still doesn’t believe me. Instead, she says, “Maybe her wackiness is invading your mind and changing into paranoia. Plus, you’re intoxicated.”

“I’m intoxicated?” I shriek. “Me? Ms. Parking Meter Humper?”

Elena muffles her laugh as she covers both our mouths. We all swing forwards as the cab comes to an abrupt halt.

As we straighten up, attempting to continue our bickering, the driver interrupts, “Well how about making as much money as you can from here on in until we get to Penn.”

“Okay!” What the hell? I couldn’t do anything about it if Cockknocker did see me. Besides, I’m allowed to do whatever I want to do outside of work as long as it’s legal. Which, technically, peeing on the side of a building isn’t.

The cabbie glances back at us as we pull up to Penn which is a-frenzy with people as always. His eyes are the greenest I’ve ever seen. We begin to climb out as he offers us a wad of cash, but then draws back. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh, no!” we moan, meaning, “what is it?”

“I have another question for you. You need to risk it all to answer.”

I’ve already risked many things tonight. I risked having my boss see me squat and pee in an alleyway. I risked my future by flirting with my student crush. Who cares about risking some money that I didn’t have seconds before anyway. I say, “We’ll do it!” without even consulting the gals. Before they protest, I hold up my phone, their picture from minutes before plastered on the screen.

The cabbie poses: “What writer claimed that ‘The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts and reason writes?’”

I feel like I’m going to pee. Not from a full bladder but from the excitement of knowing that I just doubled our money. “Thank God I had those business cards made with one of my favorite literary quotes on them,” I burst out before Elena can come up with one of her Braveheart drunk girl answers, “Because that quote is on them, by Andre Gide!!!!!”

The girls cheer having seen my business cards. They know I’m right before the cabbie says it.

The driver leans back towards the windshield, grinning sheepishly. “You sure know your stuff at such an odd hour. Andre Gide is correct!” We all cheer, the lights in the cab go crazy in box patterns across the ceiling, the jingling goes off non-stop, and we get handed huge wads of cash, three grand each. Thankfully, none of it makes us vomit.

As we sign release papers that say we will allow the network to broadcast our zany embarrassing antics, I shake Cabbie’s hand through his window and thank him for a great time. He holds my hand a bit longer than any normal handshaker would. He has a firm grip, not a psychotic grip, a grip that’s smart and soothing. He ventures, “How about you let me have one of those business cards?” His eyes are so green.

“You want to see if I was lying?” I question, all confused.

He laughs. “No. It’s my way of asking for your number. I don’t believe I’ve laughed so hard in all the games I’ve hosted.” His eyes sparkle in the lamppost light.

I balance on my one shoe, find my cardholder in my bag, and produce one business card. “My cell and my home numbers.”

He examines it. “Your favorite quote, sure enough.” He holds out his hand. “Get home safe. I’ll call you, if that’s okay.”

I shake his hand. He’s got clean fingernails. “Sure,” I say. “Byeeee!” I hobble over to my still-sobering-up friends.

“Bye, Cinderella!” he calls out.

Elena pushes me in the shoulder. “You are on fire tonight! Gonna pick up any more men on the train?”

“You never know. When it rains, it pours.” Whenever I have one guy interested in me, they all come out of the woodwork. It’s amazing. Even more amazing, most of them crawl back in right away.

“She just might pick up two or three on the way home,” Sophia mocks me, copying my hobble. She asks, “By the way, what’s his name?”

I have no idea. In my frantic, overstressed state of nerves and joy and fun-lovin good times, I just gave all of my personal information to a complete stranger whose first name I don’t even know.

Elena gives me her thirtieth hand wave of the night. “No worries, Roma. Jeffery Rigger will protect you if CabMan turns out to be a psycho.”

Then I remember that maybe there’s another reason I could get fired and it has nothing to do with urinating outdoors and everything to do with my drunken misjudgment. I am definitely not going out with Jeffery Rigger.

The Contents of Sophia’s Purse (In The Order She Empties It To Find A Pen)

2008-12-26T09:10:00.000-08:00

1 tampon
2 tissues, ripped and crumpled but not used (“I swear they are clean!)
1 tube lip gloss, copper tint
1 tube lipstick, pink
3 quarters
1 cell phone containing the numbers of about twenty-five celebrities
5 pieces of Trident gum
1 small flip notepad
1 mini-bar sized bottle of Chambourd
1 pill box containing four Advil, one green tea supplement, and a Tic Tac
2 Snickers’ wrappers
1 flashlight keychain, sans keys
2 to-do lists, items crossed off
3 receipts from various drug stores
5 condoms, lubricated
1 powder compact
1 set of keys, five in total with a tiny rubber ducky hanging between them
3 jelly pens, pastel colors
1 clicky pen, blue ink

Ask and You Shall Receive

2008-12-19T05:13:00.001-08:00

“Oh, lookie hea, lookie hea!” Elena’s Island accent comes out when she’s been drinking. “Marie goes to take a leak and she comes back with a man!” She holds up her glass, sloshing out half of its contents onto the floor.

“Quite the FYT at that!” Sophia, Michael Jackson fan, switches up the PYT lyrics to proclaim Jeffery a Fine Young Thing in her very tipsy way.

I pat Jeffery on the arm as he sidles up to the table with me. I use his shoulder—strong, muscular shoulder—as a crutch as I hop up onto my stool. It wobbles left and Jeffery quickly slides his arm around my waist instead of the chair to steady me. “Girls, this is Jeffery Rigger.” I can’t help beaming as I introduce them. The beaming quickly becomes the blushing of a twelve-year-old.

Elena, having been frowning at her lost liquor, goes back to grinning. “You already snagged his name?”

“He’s my student.” I immediately feel bad. I probably said that too loudly. I probably embarrassed him. He will never step foot into an English class again, having been scorned by his first college English professor.

Instead, he cracks a wide smile, nods, and moves his arm across the back of my chair. “How-do, ladies?” If he were wearing a top hat, he’d tip it. Of course he’s not wearing any sort of hat because he’s indoors and a gentleman never wears a hat inside of a place. Golly gee. Idealize much, Marie?

Recognition finally shows through my friends’ stiffening spines, which is even more embarrassing because I’m sure Jeffery sees it and figures out that I talk about him. Sophia’s eyebrows lift to almost her hairline and Elena nods exaggeratedly. They catch on that he’s the crush and, more importantly, understand, (finally understand!) why I’ve been crushing. He’s not the normal student. There’s just something about him that screams, Let me be your boyfriend; let me climb into bed with you; let me buy you a puppy; let me give you a back rub; let me be yours forever and always.

They fall into silence, an occurrence that never happens when we’re out drinking. They become shy, an occurrence that never happens, well, ever. This is not an awkward silence. This is a silence that says I have good taste, Jeffery has a nice face, and let’s all bask in the glow of this young male specimen.

Jeffery breaks the silence. “You guys need a refill?”

“We can’t accept illegal alcohol,” I say with a smirk. “You 21?”

“No. I know the bartender.” He smirks back. “That seems to work better than having a fake ID. The only thing that gets better service here is having big boobs.” Jeffery takes a quick glance at Sophia’s wonder-twins.

Mystery solved on how we’d been getting refills before even finishing our firsts. Sophia proudly yells one more time, “Three cheers for my bosom!” as Jeffery calls, “Frankie, three more!” I add, “Make it four! On me!”

“Oh, Professor, I can’t accept illegal alcohol. You into contributing to the corruption of a minor?”

“Minor?!” Elena yells. “Hell, are you jailbait?”

“Smooth, El, real smooth.” I roll my eyes at her.

“No, I’m 20. Never fear. I was just kidding.” He flashes a smile that would charm the pants off a Mormon.

As he places our drinks in front of us, flexing his arms, I rationalize that technically, he’s an adult. He’s 20 and I’m 24. The same way there’s no difference between 18 and 20, there’s really no difference between 20 and 24. Therefore, two consenting adults are technically allowed to do whatever they want. Especially when one of them is as scrumptious as he is with his maroon too-tight t-shirt and ass-fitted jeans.

“I have to tinkle,” Sophia nudges Elena. “Come with me so I don’t get groped.”

“You get groped no matter where you go.” Elena rolls her eyes and hops down. The two of them lean against each other for support as they weave through the crowd at the bar. I hear Sophia cackle and Elena unconvincingly scold, “Oh, stop that!” as they disappear to the bathroom.

Jeffery half-sits, half-leans on Elena’s now vacant seat and sips on his beer. “Thanks for the drink.”

“No problem. Keep your lips sealed about it.”

“Of course. You think I want the boys to know I was hanging out with my teacher?” He sticks out his tongue as if to say “ew” and lifts the bottle to his lips.

I take a swig of my hurricane. “I guess you’re right. Not that it’s so bad to see me here, is it?” I lean in, my head dizzy.

He follows my lead and leans in towards me, too. His head is spinning. So is the entire bar at times. I catch swirls of neon green and red. Shaky dart boards. Shaky Jeffery. “You know, Professor, I’ve really been enjoying your class.” He hugs his beer to his chest, flexing his pecs so on purpose.

“I know. You’ve told me.” I stare at his flexed chest, shamelessly.

“I haven’t told you why.” He scoots his head down, trying to get me to move my attention from his muscles to his eyes. Now I know how guys feel when they stare at a woman’s rack. It’s not their fault. I tear my eyes away to make eye contact with him. His eyes smolder under the light right above us. My cheeks grow hot and my thighs ache. This time, though, it’s not from the alcohol.

“I assume you love my class because of my ever-intriguing lectures on punctuation and paragraphs.” I drink more.

He drinks more. “Partly that.”

“My legs,” I blurt out.

He laughs. “How did you know?”

“You ogle them all the time. As if the answers to my questions are written on them.” I rub my calves together under the table.

“You’ve seen me looking?” He’s not embarrassed. He seems impressed.

“Yes.” I should end this conversation right now. I should start talking about the works of Maya Angelou.

“So then I guess you’ve figured out that I like your class not because of the class. Because of you. I’m really into you. As a person. You know?” He gulps his beer. Now he seems nervous.

I finish the bottom drops of my drink. “Well, Jeffery.” I pause. I’m trying to make my brain work before my mouth says something it’s not supposed to. My body parts are at war with each other. My mouth wins out. “My friends have heard of you before. I talk about you.” I pause. Mark Twain. Shel Silverstein. “I guess I’m into you as a person as well.” I can’t stop it.

“So what do two people who are equally into each other do?” He gulps more beer. Flexes some more muscles.

I will not let it come to that. I will not be the instigator. “Are you drunk?” I try to change the subject.

He won’t let me. “I’m not drunk. You seem to be a little tipsy there, yourself, going into the men’s room.”

“I had to pee!” I interrupt him quite loudly. I hit him on the bicep. A friendly gesture of mock reprimanding as well as a cheap feel. A Tale of Two Cities. Of Mice and Men. Even the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. Something.

His arms fly up in front of him. “Whoa, there, Professor. That’s fine. I wasn’t saying anything bad about you.” He holds his hands up defensively for a few more seconds, and then puts them down, letting the left one rest on my right one. He wears a silver ring on his thumb. It’s engraved with Celtic knots. His fingernails are clean.

“That’s mine.” I point my chin at my hand he’s holding.

“So it is.” He doesn’t move. He pushes down on my hand for an entire three seconds.

“So.” I change tactics. Books and authors aren’t working. Let’s try lyrics. Desperado. Why don’t you come to your senses? Yes, why won’t I?

“I think two people who like each other usually date each other, don’t they?” His eyes have a sheepish glint, abandoning the suave smoldering effect for boyish appeal.

I stammer in a half-teachery way, “Usually. Yes. Usually they date.” I have no authors or books or lyrics or rules to hide behind. My mind fills with only Jeffery. My hand sweats beneath his, luckily palm-down.

He pushes his shoulders back. “That’s what we should do then. We’ll go on a date.” Right after he says it, he hops up onto the stool behind him, as if his legs won’t hold him anymore.

“Okay.” I flip my hand palm up under his and squeeze, forgetting the film of nervous sweat. Maybe he’ll think it’s from the table. “That’s more than okay.” I’m giddy and my heart is thumping. “You did just ask me out, right?”

“Yes. You just said yes.” He grins triumphantly.

I nod. “Yes, I did. You sure have balls.”

“I should hope so.” He winks.

“Figuratively!” I smack his shoulder.

“I know, I know. You’ve got to rage against the dying of the light.” His smile is small and contemplative.

I hang onto the edge of the table. “Did you just quote Dylan Thomas?”

He screws up his face. “Dylan who? No. It’s a line from that dude who dies in Dangerous Minds.”

I’m crestfallen when he doesn’t know who Dylan Thomas is. Here I was thinking that he was some grandly wise person before his time. Now he pushes me and I grab the table even more for support.

“I’m kidding, Professor!” I don’t smile yet. I’m not sure if he’s covering his ass. He goes on, “Dylan Thomas. Drunken Welsh guy. Fern Hill. I know it’s from his poem.”

Now I smile broad and laugh free. “Thank God! I thought for a moment that my ‘yes’ was a huge mistake.”

Before we make any plans, Sophia and Elena are back, complaining about the line, the stalls, the toilet paper, the smell, and the girl that must have been about fifteen who was giving them, how dare she, the evil eye. To shut them up, Jeffery asks Sophia for a pen.

“Sure. Anything for a student of Marie’s.” She fishes a pen out of her purse by first removing all of its contents.

Elena passes him a napkin. He’s given her the seat back and he’s leaning on the table between us. She grins and says, “If you’re handing out numbers, you could give me yours.” He gives me the napkin with his number and half hugs my shoulders. “Call this week. Maybe we’ll go on Thursday.” He reveals to all of us, “The rest of the night is on the house. Frankie already knows.” He whispers in my ear, “Talk to you soon.” Then he disappears into the crowd of FYTs.

I must have blanked out for a few seconds because Sophia and Elena are pointing at me and giggling about how I’m flushed and flustered.

“Girls, you’re not going to believe this.”

“Oh, what now?”

“I have a date.”

A Very Happy Hour

2008-12-12T07:28:00.000-08:00

I take a large sip of my Soco Hurricane, letting the icy liquid slide down my throat. I’ve been waiting an extra week for this. My thighs ache immediately. Ah, yes, the key sign of a very alcoholic drink. My body hates me already. My mind, the opposite.

Sophia, Elena, and I are perched on non-ergonomic barstools at The Lair, a sports bar about two blocks away from Sophia’s office. The Lair still offers a subtle lingering aroma of smoke even though you can no longer smoke inside city bars. Smoke, hot sauce, fried 50-cent wings, beer, cologne, liquor. All the chairs wobble. The tables wobble, too. Some have folded paper pushed under the shorter leg. That doesn’t work very well. The wait staff wears black shirts and blue jeans. Almost all of them chew gum. The walls are dart boards, mirrors, neon beer signs, signed sports memorabilia. Absolutely nothing has to do with lions. Yet, it’s called The Lair. Why oh why would Leah want to miss this for a date with Robert?

Our Happy Hour fiesta was post-poned because of last week’s Emergency Cockknocker episode. Still, it’s better late than later, which is usually what happens with my crazy schedule and psychotic boss. This is actually working out better because Cockknocker was sick today and I was able to sneak out early, catch a 4-something train, and meet up with the girls in the city. Plus, I have an extra week of gawking at Jeffery Rigger to discuss. His jeans got tighter with every class session. He brought me coffee on Wednesday, only because he lost the bet I made with him that he couldn’t find a sentence where he needed to use “in order to” instead of just “to.” Oh, we English professors, we’re quite a dangerous crowd. The gals and I snagged a cozy corner near the window that overlooks the street and, if we crane our necks just so, we can glimpse the over-inflated crotch of one David Nellson, hanging high over mid-town. Not since Marky Mark of Funky Bunch fame has such a buzz been created about an underwear ad. Sophia tries to hide her pride to no avail; it always shines through with every overheard comment about the now infamous billboard and the number one question of whether or not the picture has been air-brushed. She hasn’t even told us.

I tip back my icy mug and let more of the Soco Hurricane enter my parched mouth. Sure, alcohol makes you dehydrated in the long run; however, it’s exactly what I need to quench my thirst for now. Sophia and Elena follow suit, chugging down Sour Appletini’s and Blue Streaks.

Sophia puts down her martini glass and heightens her eyebrows. “Love or money?” She drums her peach-painted nails on the table. The table wobbles. Our stools wobble, too.

“Love! I don’t want to talk about work.” Elena scrunches up her nose and rolls her eyes. She’s been having an on-going drama at work between herself and another sales associate who’s constantly stealing customers left and right to make her quota. In turn, she steals all of Elena’s clientele along with Elena’s commission. The last tiff they had ended with a flying hanger and a very miserable fur coat bearing the brunt of some hacked-up phlegm courtesy of blue-haired, chapped-lipped Margaret Henner, Neiman Marcus sales associate gone awry. Luckily, this incident took place just after the store closed, and Javier, the security guard in love with the very married Elena, was able to break up the two women before management caught on that a ruckus was ensuing on the sales floor.

Although Sophia and I love a good bickering story, we agree that our love lives are a happier topic these days than having Elena rehash her work woes. Sophia chugs back the last of her apple concoction and points at me. “You first, sweet valley high. Tell us more about your January-May crush.”

“Yeah. Let’s hope this one works out better than the whole Monkey Boy debacle.” Elena’s reference to my last crush du jour sends Sophia into a fit of chortling.

I have a history of insanely impossible crushes, the latest being no exception. Whenever I break up with someone, the first thought in my mind is something like, “oh, good, now I’m available for Mark McGrath” or “nice! Now I can let Johnny Depp know I’m back on the market” or “John Stamos, you must love me.” My crushes have been impossible because that’s the point of a crush. Choose someone unattainable so you don’t drive yourself crazy wondering if he’s going to call. Even now in my twenties, I don’t plan on giving up this teenager habit. It keeps me occupied while nursing a bruised heart.

However, my last few crushes have been on a different level, where the off-chance of meeting the crushee is actually possible more than impossible. They include a few stand-up comics we saw at Governor’s, just a hop-skip-and-jump away from NYLISC (especially Dane Cook who wears all black and has a sweaty chest that’s oh so lickable) and Monkey Boy, the associate producer of a New York City radio station, WPLJ. I got over Thomas by pining after a faceless voice on the radio who loves the Mets and movies. At first it was a regular crush, reverting back to that unattainable, safe, sane mode of crushes. One day I accidentally came across his picture on the PLJ website. I spent five straight hours at work on the internet, trying to find the real name of the one they call Monkey Boy. I mean, I missed class! My Intro to Lit class came knocking on my door and I sent them away, telling them just to read the next chapter. When I finally found out his name, I made a list of all the events he would be at—-malls, liquor stores, grand openings of Chilis and Chuck E. Cheese. I decided which ones were close enough to go to so I could catch a glimpse of the voice from the Big Show.

Finally, I went.

There’s a reason crushes should be unattainable. I stood on line for hours at a book signing for a children’s author to see Monkey Boy. He sat behind a small, square table draped in PLJ paraphernalia. I tried to wade my way through the thick crowd. Children were running into me, pegging me with inflatable guitars, crying and peeing on themselves. People dressed up in big fuzzy suits to imitate children’s book characters were walking around, handing out more artillery and hugs. These are the people I avoid daily. I mean, how comfortable can you be when a big fuzzy fictional character with a larger-than-your-entire-body head approaches you with arms outstretched for a hug, yet he’s completely mute. Scary. Seriously.

After the third hour of standing amid screaming children and adults in monster costumes, I had to leave. I left my dreams of meeting my crush in Border’s books on the turnpike, concluding that it would never work out anyway because my family loves the Yankees. Plus, he loves Star Wars, and I, to put it nicely, don’t. I still listen to the morning show on PLJ, but I lower the volume a notch when my ex-crush comes on.

Now, I have another potentially attainable crush. I sigh at the thought of Comp class and Jeffery’s muscles. “Nah. You first, buffin-maker. Tell us about your man.”

Elena sloshes her blue rum drink back and decides she’ll go first. “Jack and I have been having the best sex of our lives!” She’s drunk already, having not eaten since breakfast. Some of the old guys at the bar leer over at us. Nevertheless, we remain not as interesting as the closed-captioned events on the big screen over the bar. “Twice a day, every day!” she continues. “You wanna know our secret?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Handcuffs and bathtubs and Al Muthafuckin Green. That’s all I have to say.”

Elena takes down half of the second Blue Streak. This is actually tame for Elena. She’s never one to stop at two words. She’s one to discuss length, girth, pressure, duration, and orgasm noises. Since the marriage made in heaven began, she’s backed down on details.

“What about rust?” Sophia’s eyebrows are up again. I can’t tell if she’s serious.

“Furry handcuffs!” Elena answers quickly. “Okay, baker, now you.”

Sophia’s eyebrows furrow back down as she finishes off the second Appletini. “Kenneth is fine. He’s red.”

Elena and I burst at the same time. “What do you mean he’s red?”

Sophia shrugs. “You know. The color. Red.” She leans back and waves to get two more drinks.

I finish off my first hurricane, trying to catch up to my friends. “Do you mean he has a rash?”

“No. He’s just red.” Sophia falls silent, as if her answer is completely self-explanatory. Unlike the usual New York bar experience, two more martini glasses are already in front of Sophia and her empties have been whisked away.

“Okay, red, whatever.” Elena waves her hand to clear away the subject, as if it finally makes sense, which it doesn’t. “That’s not who I wanted to hear about anyway.”

“What do you mean? Who else is there?”

“Big crotch man over there.” Elena jerks her thumb in the direction of the billboard we can almost see out the window.

I spit some of my drink out, snort, and giggle all at the same time. I’m multitalented. Elena does much of the same thing after seeing me lose it.

Sophia is not as amused. She crosses her arms, which is hard for her to do with her rather large chest, and tsks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I finish my second hurricane. Before I order more, two fresh drinks arrive in front of me. The bartender must be desperately in need of a big tip. “You know exactly what she’s talking about. Ever since your big buffin send up at the office, you haven’t stopped gushing about how the uber-model loved your baking.”

“Yeah, he loved your buns,” Elena snorts and wobbles in hysterics.

Sophia is still not amused. She leans over, knocking a newly empty martini glass over with her left breast, and pushes Elena’s shoulder. “Cut it out. There’s nothing between us. I’m with Kenneth.”

Perfect opportunity for me. “So you mean that Kenneth is your boyfriend?”

“No! Kenneth is just, just . . .”

Elena is tearing up and can barely get the words out. “Kenneth is just red, whatever the hell that means!” She beats the table with an open palm, our drinks bouncing with the beat.

I hoot. “Yeah, what the hell does that mean?”

“His face!” Sophia sways back, defensively. “His face is red. His skin. He’s just red all the time now. I have no idea why. He hasn’t said anything about it so I don’t know if he’s just always been that way and I’m just now noticing, or if he’s ignoring it, or not telling me about it, or, aw, hell, maybe he’s just so wrapped up in work and being Mr. Perfect Son that he doesn’t even notice it!” She finishes off another drink.

Elena and I are stunned into silence. Sophia’s never ranted about Kenneth before. He’s just sort of always been there.

Sophia shrugs. “He’s just red. David is just a friend.”

Making light of the subject, I suggest that David Nellson has been upgraded from client to friend. Sophia agrees. We all toast to friendship, waxing sentimental in our semi-drunken way. I can’t keep it in any longer. I grab Sophia’s wrist. “Was Kenneth actually born in a suit?”

Sophia, whose reactions I’ve never been able to predict although we’ve been friends since we were five, lets out a howl that draws attention. I turn to Elena, wide-eyed, having never in my life seen such a hysterical reaction from her. Elena is wide-eyed as well.

Sophia catches her breath and grabs my wrist now. “I swear to you, I have always wondered the same thing! I mean, even his pajamas are suitlike.”

Elena hoots, “He wears pajamas? Like actual matching pajamas? Not boxers and a shirt like every other man I know?”

“Yes. Pajamas.”

I howl. “And he’s red!” We all fall into a fit of giggles that causes tears, sniffling, stomach holding, and breath catching once more.

Sophia is first to recover. “Okay, swee-valley. C’mon and tell us ol’er folk how love goes in kiddie lan.” Sophia is slurring her words. Perhaps, I’m just hearing slurred words. Either way, the alcohol is quickly affecting the way this conversation is going.

Elena grabs my arm as her chair wobbles away from the table, causing me to sway in her direction as well. I grab the table and it leans towards Sophia. Her chest stops it from tipping over and she yells, “Three cheers for my bosom!” The crowd at the bar, which has grown from three old men to about twenty guys in their early to mid thirties in suits and sports shirts, cheers at us. Wow—they know what bosom means.

“I’m in love with a boy!” I squeal. “His name is Jeffery. He’s so cute and nice and smart.”

“Ooh, smart!” Elena gives me a thumbs up. “You have one of those at NYLISC?”

The two of them have been witness to many a sad story about many an ignorant mind. All in all, I’ve had a good crowd of students at NYLISC. Last semester, I had all the problem students. Now I’m back on top, with Jeffery Rigger leading the pack.

“Would-ja do ‘im?” Sophia raises her brows once again.

“Better yet,” Elena cuts in, “Did-ja do ‘im?” That sends both of them into yet another fit of giggles.

I giggle, too, but stop short. I’m going to pee in my pants. I hop off my stool and weave my way through the guys at the bar at warp speed. I’m half-way through emptying my bladder when I realize something very, very odd. Why would a ladies’ room have urinals? Oh, no. I’m in the men’s room. Not only that, I’m sitting on the seat of the toilet in the men’s room. Not squatting. No paper as a shield. Eeeewwww.

I press down on my stomach, forcing out all the water I drank all day and the multiple hurricanes I just downed. I hurry out of the stall as quickly as possible. I wash my hands and shake them dry as I head for the door. I put my head down, ready to weave back through the crowd. I open the door and force my head right into some guy’s chest. Familiar shoes, ones I’ve studied before. The same shoes worn by the same guy I giggled over just two minutes ago.

“Well, my, my, Professor. Fancy meeting you here.”

Thomas Emails Me Again

2008-12-05T07:12:00.001-08:00

HEY. JUST WONDERING HOW YOU’VE BEEN. EMAIL ME SOON. LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. SPIKE SAYS ARF. I GUESS THAT MEANS HI. SO HI FROM SPIKE. BYE.

I stare at the screen for five minutes, wishing I had the strength of Leah to never speak to an ex again. So, I call Leah hoping that the strength will find its way through phone lines. “Should I answer him?” “No.” I call Sophia. “Should I answer him?” “No.” I call Elena. “Should I answer him?”

“Do you want to answer him?” Déjà vu all over.

“I don’t know.”

“Then don’t do anything until you do know.”

“Okay.”

I click off his email and scroll down to my last new message. Butterflies bounce off the walls of my stomach.
THANKS FOR GIVING ME YOUR HOME EMAIL. NOW I DON’T HAVE TO AGONIZE ALL WEEKEND WAITING FOR A RESPONSE. I REALLY ENJOYED YOUR LECTURE TODAY ON THE INTERNET AND PORN. YOU NEVER CEASE TO AMAZE ME. WRITE BACK SOON. HUGS, JEFFERY =)

His automatic signature reads: “MY MOTHER DIED TODAY. OR PERHAPS IT WAS YESTERDAY, I DON’T KNOW.” Now he’s back to Camus. His last email was something from Neruda whom he got into when he was abroad. I wonder what got him into Camus.

This is the fifth in a group of flirtatious yet studious emails I have received from Jeffery Rigger ever since I hesitantly gave him my home email address so he could send me assignments. Sure, he sent me the paper, and more: a cutesy forward about 99 ways to say “I’ve Got A Crush,” a “Garfield” cartoon in which the fat cat falls in love with a plate of lasagna, and three more emails from just Jeffery, talking about how he misses riding a train in a cramped compartment across a foreign land and ordering food by pointing at a menu in a foreign language and hoping it tastes like chicken, how he enjoys my lectures with a subtext suggesting he loves my legs. They feel like their being watched every time his name pops up on my screen.

He even sent me an email confessing that there had been no death in his family at all and that he was really going on a road trip and he begged for me to not be mad and that he probably should have just told me because I’m “cool like that” and would have understood. For some reason, the burn of infuriation never rushed through my heart as it usually does when I catch students in a lie and I never brought it up to him. I had kind of assumed that there was no mother’s third cousin anyway. I just never cared.

I don’t call and ask for permission from anyone. I click the reply button: YOU’RE WELCOME, JEFFERY. NICE TO HEAR YOU ENJOY AND REMEMBER MY LECTURES. Hmm, “nice to have you front and center, my little stud-muffin” would cross some sort of line so I click send there.

Leah's Healing Heart

2008-11-29T05:08:00.000-08:00

Glowing and full-chested with triumph over the Knocker of Cocks, I swing open my office door with Brenda Dunick and Jerry Gillpatrick in tow, high-fiving each other and patting my back. As I yank the keys out of the doorknob, I notice a body hunched over at my desk.

Jerry beats me to it. “Oh, that Gattlin girl is here to cause trouble!”

Leah’s head swings back in surprise. She wheels away from the screen, admonishing, “Whoa! Why don’t you give me a heart attack while you’re at it?”

Brenda points to the door. “Didn’t you hear the keys in the lock?” Always the sensible one, and not one with much of a sense of humor, Brenda goes straight for the logic. Logic is never the answer around Leah and me.

Leah shakes her head side to side. “No. Was busy.”

Brenda remains dumbfounded. “How can you be too busy to hear something?”

Jerry puts a large arm around Brenda’s small shoulders. “I’ve learned to never try to figure these gals out.” He points at us with devil’s ears, pointer finger at me and pinkie at Leah. “You should learn to do the same,” he stage-whispers.

I grab his hand. “Didn’t mamma ever tell you that it’s not nice to point?” I throw his arm back at him. Leah cackles and I direct my attention to her. “And you, young lady. You’re here late on a Friday.”

She spins the chair around as if she were a grade schooler. “Had to pick something up.” She stops herself mid-spin. The rims of her eyes are pink and her nose is flared. She’s talking as if her nose has been stuffed forever. She’s been crying.

Thankfully, Jerry needs to get home and Brenda follows him rather quickly. After all, who wants to stay late at work on a Friday? As soon as they’re gone, I fall into the dippity-doo chair.

“Leah?”

All she needs to hear is her name to start bawling for a minute straight. I know Leah. She doesn’t cry at just anything, but when she does cry, she does so uncontrollably in spurts. I wait for her eyes to dry out and for her to catch her breath. I move the box of tissues closer to her. Her blue eyes become lilac in the glow of the computer screen.

“It would have been three years.” She wipes her nose and crumples the tissue so hard that her pink fingernails leave marks against the palm of her hand. I note the date. I remember the ex. I nod because that’s all I can do. Nothing I say will make her feel better. That’s how she always refers to him—-as if that’s his only identity. He said he had to break it off because he didn’t have time to be married and couldn’t see the point in staying together at all if they couldn’t be married. They had gone out for two years. He had had time for that. They had been engaged for only a week. That’s when he had his epiphany that work and marriage would never go hand and hand.

Leah dabs at her pink-rimmed lilac eyes. “He called. Left a message to remind me that it would have been three years. He laughed, Marie.” She turns to me, her eyes returning to ice blue. Whenever we go out, the most popular question she gets asked is whether or not she’s wearing color-contacts. Her eyes are the coolest blue as if they couldn’t be naturally that color. Lucky gal. All that and gams too. “Do you want to hear the message?”

Of course I want to hear the message. That’s what women do. We analyze, interpret, fret, and conclude. Hearing the actual voice of the man involved is always a plus. We save messages. Replay messages. Make our friends listen to messages. Ask for their opinions. Hash and rehash, replay until the messages expire. I listen. He has the voice of a fat man. I never met him, but I always see him as a fat man who wears black to seem slimmer and he always has a five o’clock shadow. Apparently, he’s a bean pole with clammy hands. In either scenario, I can’t see the gam-gorgeous Leah ever having been with him and I can’t comprehend how she’s all torn up about him, but that’s how this emotions thing works. I mean, take me and Thomas. What the hell is that all about?

The message ends, she picks up the receiver about an inch and replaces it to hang up the speaker phone. “You calling him back?” I play with the cord of the phone, thankful that it hasn’t been hidden today.

She rolls the chair back and raises her eyebrows far enough to crinkle them back to almost her hairline. “Absolutely not!” she says through her teeth.

I drop the phone cord and back away. “Okay, Scary. Sorry.”

She wheels back into place and semi-smiles. “Sorry. I won’t be scary anymore. I’m just not calling him back. Ever.”

“He said ‘Talk soon’ to you.” I point at the phone as if the phone is now him.

She pushes the phone, as if it were him. “Yeah. Jerk. He was one of those guys who can never say good-bye.” She sniffs in complete annoyance. “You know what I mean.”

I do. I dated a few of those. They’re guys who claim to be so deeply philosophical, have such a hold on life, recognize their own mortality as no one else does. They’ll never say “good-bye” to anyone. They’ll just say “see ya” or “talk soon” or even go so far as to say something in another language like “ciao” or “shalom.” Never good-bye, which evidently guarantees you’ll never be seen alive again. This quirk only adds to my confusion as to why she went out with him.

“Good. I’m glad you won’t call him. I’m jealous.”

She crooks an eyebrow at me. She purposely uses facial expressions that involve eyebrows because hers are perfectly sculpted naturally. The woman never plucks, never waxes, never threads. They’re a red shade lighter than her hair, which makes for a beautiful combination with the ice blue eyes. She’s a doll. “Why would you be jealous of me? Look at me! I am the epitome of a mess!”

“You know you’ll never call him. Which is more than I can say for myself with Thomas.” I sigh loudly.

She nods at me now. “Yup, you’re right. It is rather empowering.” She sighs, too. “It still sucks to hurt!” The tissue box bears the brunt of her anger as she sucker punches it across the room. She tilts her head to the side, her hair brushing across her cheek. “Get any good classes at your emergency meeting?” She cocks her other eyebrow.

Then it’s over. She’s done with being upset. She’s finished wasting her time on the ex. She had been dreading feeling this way today; that’s why she wasn’t planning on coming out with me, Sophia, and Elena. She knew she wouldn’t be in the mood for drinks. She’s so lucky that the cocks got knocked into a useless meeting so she could seek some solace. I invite her out for a quick drink. She declines, goes home to have a night to herself. I invite her out for next week. She declines, saying that she has a date with Robert.

With that, I pretty much know that the ex will never be a factor for her from here on in.

Emergency Department Meeting

2008-11-21T04:30:00.000-08:00

This is not an emergency. It’s a test. Only a test. Of patience. My patience. As well as the patience of the entire department.

I shift my weight from side to side while planting my toes on the floor. It’s 4:04 on Friday and I’m supposed to be sneaking out to meet Elena and Sophia for drinks. Instead, I called to reschedule and now I’m in my swivel chair, trying not to fantasize about escaping the building.

“ESL? Any takers?”

I assume everyone stays hunched over their notes as I do. I don’t dare raise my head. Any movement is considered a sold bid for a class at auction.

“ESL? Any takers?” She says it louder as if we had all gone momentarily deaf. “Okay, I will take ESL.” As if she’s the martyr. None of us are qualified to teach ESL, including Corporal Cockknocker. I’m not sure why she seems so annoyed—no one ever volunteers to teach it and semester after semester, she does. Maybe she’s still annoyed at the whole showing movies in class showdown. She got her way in the end; she shouldn’t be annoyed any longer.

Before each semester, we divvy up classes. The Corporal decided to do it a month and a half early this semester, probably because her ruin-everyone’s-plans radar is on. She claims the dean needs to know sooner. I get third pick due to seniority, but we all usually compromise. Basically, we agree to disagree with any suggestions the Corporal has. This plan is unspoken yet always executed perfectly by silences, avoiding eye-contact, grunts, and sniffles.

“Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Composition One? Jerry, I assume that you will pick that up?” She glares at him imploringly. She supposes their history together in the department for ten years will pull him to her side. It never does. He hates her. He’s the one who named her Corporal Cockknocker—it’s stronger than ball buster, meaning the same thing with an alliterative ring.

Jerry slides his specs down and peers at her over their top rims. “Hm. Comp on a Friday? Susie Q, how ‘bout you?”

Before Susie can respond, Corporal jumps in—“Or Susie. Yes, sometimes you do prefer that class.”

Not allowing control-freak-o-rama to get the best of us, Norma chimes in, “Actually, that’s more my speed for next semester. That is, if Marie and Susie don’t mind.”

Cockknocker can’t keep up. She ers and ums, flinging her gray at the roots, chestnut in the middle, blonde at the end hair back and forth at the pinball scheduling routine. She can’t tilt the machine in her favor. “Done!” I slam my hand down in approval as Michael half-stands to put Norma’s name on the white board. We rack up bonus points for that round.

Cockknocker pushes her glasses up to her eyebrows, using her middle-finger as always. She adjusts her peacock blue suit, trying to regain control. I go back to swinging. This is why all our meetings take forever. We’ll be here well after 6 but it will be worth it.

I lean back to peek at her feet. Just as I suspected—she’s wearing scuffed, white shoes. I smirk.

“Very well. Marie will take Reading.”

“What?!” Dammit. Never smirk. Never, ever do anything except stare at the table and swivel!

She steals my smirk and the rest of my department sinks, defeated. “You just motioned to take Reading, did you not?”

Dammit, dammit, dammit. I hate teaching Reading. I refuse to show it. “Yes, I meant what book are we using? I hear it’s new. Very exciting.” Since I need to be convincing, I pump my fist in the air and exclaim, “Right on! Reading! Yeah!” I punctuate my act with a single hand clap and then let my clasped hands fall into my lap, where I stare once more.

My colleagues now all smirk. Corporal Cockknocker smiles fakely as I resume my swinging. Back and forth, almost meditating, until we’re ahead by 100,000 points.

Reasons to Apologize/to Not Apologize to a Man

2008-11-09T13:52:00.000-08:00

Reasons To Apologize To A Man

1. You threw out his lucky socks, shorts, or jersey because you thought it was an old ratty thing and not a blessed charm that held the secret to living a happy life and guaranteed his favorite sports team to win every game.

2. You hid little love notes in his truck when he was going on a guys’ weekend, making him the punch line of the entire trip.

3. You finally told him what you really thought about his mother/father/brother/sister/motorcycle.

4. You signed him up for that pottery class because you thought he was joking when he said he hated “Ghost” and everything associated with that or with Patrick Swayze.

5. You made him watch “Dirty Dancing” even after the pottery incident.

6. You flirted with the waiter to get free drinks.

7. You forgot to fill the tank.

8. You shut off the television during the end of that crime drama that he always watches that you could care less about because you wanted to cuddle and you thought it was a repeat because every single episode seems exactly the same.

9. You were late. Again.

10. You forgot to buy condoms even when it was your turn. Again.

Reasons to Not Apologize to a Man

1. He was wrong.

2. He blamed it all on you.

3. He went crazy when he was wrong and blamed it all on you.

4. He was wrong again.

5. He broke up with you.

6. He left you without even telling you he was breaking up with you.

7. He cheated.

8. He pretended to cheat so that you would break up with him and he could still have a clear conscience.

9. He was wrong.

10. He was wrong. He was wrong. He was wrong.

Thomas Emails Me

2008-11-07T07:19:00.000-08:00

PLEASE CALL ME. I MISS YOU.

My first reaction? Reach for the phone. I stop myself. Why should I call him? If he wants to talk to me so badly, he’ll call me. That’s why I’d screen my calls. He knows I’d screen my calls if I suspected that he was going to call. Then he wouldn’t get to talk to me anyway. Maybe I should change my number. Perhaps move to Tonga Tonga.

I look at the screen one more time. The message is still there. It hasn’t changed. I don’t know why I thought it would. It’s there, clear and concise. He misses me. It’s so nice to be missed. They always come back. They all always come back.

I miss him, too. I haven’t had anyone remotely like him in my life since we parted ways. Ha, parted ways. That’s putting it lightly. Since he broke me. That’s more like it. How can I miss that? What do I miss about it? The fighting? The paranoia? The big, beefy hands? No.

I barely ever remember any of that.

I remember flopping down into a crooked arm and being hugged for hours. I miss smelling the sweat after a workout. Love. I miss being in love and being loved and everything that goes along with love, even if it wasn’t truly love on his part. It was always love on mine. I’ll always wonder if he’ll ever know what love is. If he’ll be capable of loving anyone, including himself. He’ll never love himself as much as I loved him. I am forever convinced of that.

My eyes burn as I suddenly remember to blink. Staring at a white computer screen is not conducive to someone with a dry eye problem. I blink a few more times and squeeze out one too many tears. Even through watery eyes, the message remains the same. A simple request. A direct order. A small offer of a big heart.

PLEASE CALL ME. I MISS YOU.

This is the message I have subconsciously been waiting for all these days, months, minutes, moments. My fingers have ached to dial the familiar number. My heart has palpitated at the ring of the phone or the bing of an email. Now, here it is.

I reach for the phone. My mind goes blank. The number is no longer familiar. Something is wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t.

I call Elena. She’s at Neiman Marcus; it’s her lunch hour. “He wants me to call him.”

“Do you want to call him?”

“I just want things to be okay.”

“Will things be okay if you call him?”

“I think so.”

“So call him.”

“But I don’t think I should.”

“Why not?”

“Because that might cause, you know, problems.”

“Then don’t call him.”

“You think?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” I return to the email. PLEASE CALL ME. I MISS YOU.

The sad little cursor blinks rhythmically. “I’m going to call him.”

“There you go then.”

“This is why I love you, El.”

“What would you do without me?”

“I would probably wear sweatpants and curlers on dates with toothless men.” Elena has always been my sounding board and fashion guru. I didn’t have a single date with Thomas where I wore something I picked out. Elena is always ready with a mini-skirt (they’re in this season), a baseball cap (it’s Dutch designer), or some earrings (it’s a new line—-Susie Woo!). She’s got classic facial features, like one of those women in a painting of a myth. Only she too shares in the tiny waist line and lack of curvy hips. These non-Italian women have no child-baring bodies to speak of.

She laughs at my lack of a fashion gene. “Very true. Are we on for drinks on Friday? I’m psyched to see Sophia.”

“You bet.”

“Okay. And if you call him, don’t apologize for anything.” I can feel her wagging her French-manicured pointer finger at me.

“What do you mean by that?”

I can feel her rolling her eyes and slapping her knee. “Oh, come on! You know exactly what I mean! Every time he pops up, you start feeling sorry for how things wound up so poorly even though it was all his fault.”

I put my hand on my hip, as if she can see my objection. “You know, Elena, you sure do go from a minimalist to a pushy know-it-all with your advice rather quickly.”

“Would you rather me not give advice?” She clicks her tongue.

“No.” She knows that’s such a threat.

“Then don’t apologize to him!”

“I know! I know!”

I push the End button followed by the Call button and listen to the dial tone. My stomach gurgles as my toes curl into themselves. The number comes back to me all in one shot. I dial six digits, and then I hang up the phone. I feel a sorry coming on.