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.3
This morning's classes were less frustrating. Perhaps the students were beginning to get it. My desire was to bring the past alive for them. I passionately believed in the theory of cycles. History has never been the dry record of dusty, irrelevant events. It has always been the key to the future. Not understanding and heeding its lessons is what led to us into the futile quagmire of Viet Nam and now had us embroiled in the no win mess that Iraq was becoming. Our involvement in both of these places would have been considered ill advised by any astute student of history. Unfortunately, the value our policy makers placed on historical precedent was on a par with that of my freshman students.
Jenny caught me at lunch in the cafeteria. As the women's track coach, her only frustrations centered on her stopwatch. She was a small, wiry bundle of chocolate energy, who would probably have made an Olympic team if her stride had been longer. I knew what would be on her mind. She was determined to get me hooked up. I supposed I should be glad that she cared. When I had begun teaching at State, it had surprised me when the first one to befriend me had been a black woman. Since then she had become my closest friend.
"So you are still down with me on Friday night, right?"
"How's this guy's breath?" I breathed at her, elaborately.
"Don't start, girlfriend! His name is John, I met him the other day with Bill and he is FINE. A year from now the two of you gonna be up all night long with a yellin' tow headed brat and you'll have me to thank." She laughed.
"I'll be there but don't you dare even hint to him that he's going to score."
"I promise but I know you gonna want some this man's rock in yo' roll!" she leered, "He got my panties wet when I saw him and you know I hardly ever eat white bread."
"You lie like a rug, Jenny. You'd date a schizophrenic albino if he had big muscles."
Where can I find one?" she joked, "O.K. I got to motor. See you Friday night and PLEASE don't show up dressed like Miss Grundy."
I watched her trade laughs from table to table on her way out of the room. She was one of those naturally social creatures. I had been planning to cancel on her but after the other evening I changed my mind. If a chance meeting of minutes with a stranger in the produce section had me masturbating, it was obvious that I needed to get laid. Maybe I did want a relationship.
My lecture that afternoon had examined the New Deal era and its profound effect on the average man's expectations. There had been rabid opposition to such revolutionary concepts as Social Security and unemployment insurance. Unbridled greed had placed the U.S. on the verge of economic collapse and the possibility of revolution had been real. Only the establishment's terror at this prospect had allowed an astute F.D.R. to gather the power necessary to force these reforms down the throats of big business. They had hated the idea that a man or woman might be allowed to rest and enjoy a small part of their time on earth after a lifetime of toil. They would much prefer that everyone beneath them die in a harness yoked to their wagons. The fact that unemployment insurance might allow a person the time to find work they enjoyed rather than be forced do as their betters bid also irked them. Not only had they opposed these advances in the human condition, but their sons and grandsons have taken up the task and work behind the scenes to reverse this progress.
The lecture had been well received and I hoped I had them thinking. Then we sat through an hour and a half meeting that was, as Tom Jenkins had predicted, an exhortation to be tactful with our evaluations to the parents. They wrote the checks and the Dean did not want us pissing them off.
It had been a long day and by the time I left the campus I felt like plopping down somewhere for a stiff drink. There was a small pub called 'The Pig and Whistle' on my route. I had never stopped there but I decided I would give it a try.
There were people aplenty inside. Probably most of them were allowing the traffic to thin. I sat at end of the bar, facing the room so I could people-watch. I saw Pimm's No. 1 behind the bar and ordered a Pimm's Cup. It was good but not exactly as I remembered it from my one trip to London in my student days. I surveyed the interior and saw that, in fact, it was another one of these pseudo English pubs that have sprung up over the past decade. Somebody must have made a fortune peddling all those obsolete red phone booths to these people. I figured there must be a factory somewhere turning out 'Piccadilly Circus' signs.
I was debating whether to order another or leave, when he came through the door. What were the chances of this happening? The same guy, the very next day. Well, the supermarket wasn't that far from this pub. Maybe this was his neighborhood. All these thoughts tumbled through my head as I watched him.
He had glanced around; the way people do when they enter a room. Nobody had greeted him. At the bar, he got a draft beer, which he carried over by the dartboards. Alone, with his back to me, he began pitching darts.
I am no expert on fashion, as my friend Jenny has often told me, but I doubted that what he was wearing had come off a rack at the mall. He looked…well, tailored; I guess is what came to mind. His black slip ons had that dull, expensive looking luster. I couldn't study his features but he moved easily when he went to retrieve the darts, which he flew accurately with an almost lazy motion. I suddenly felt stupid, sitting there, analyzing his dress, his form, my god, even his shoes.
What the hell was wrong with me? He had probably never even given me a second thought after I had ignored his tricky little come on. There would be no shortage of hungry fish in the sea for a man with his looks.
I made up my mind that I had to either put him out of my mind and be on my way or just walk over and introduce myself.
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