“Are you serious?”
“Quite.”
Sandra rescued me. “Leave the poor man alone, Eliot,” she said, whereupon she turned her gaze upon me. “You can help me with the hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen, Archer,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”
“That would be vastly preferable,” I said.
At that, Sandra took my hand and escorted me into the kitchen where I listened attentively to her detailed instructions regarding the placement of the hors d’oeuvres upon the serving platters, and then commenced to perform my appointed duties, making a painstaking effort to insure that the deviled eggs and raw dipping vegetables were arranged in perfect symmetry. From time to time, Sandra would stand beside me to survey my labors and on each such occasion I felt her arm encircle my waist, although once, when she voiced approval at my exemplary ministrations, she patted my buttocks. I tried to recall the last time a woman had performed such intimate gestures on my physical person, but I could not summon forth the memory.
Half an hour following my arrival, the guests began to stream into the parlor. All of them were bearing gifts, which they deposited on the table beside mine. Jollity ensued. When Dean Fletcher arrived, the room exploded with applause. Although I was uncertain as to the purpose of this display, I joined in.
After the dean shook everybody’s hand, including mine, I wandered aimlessly about the room, hoping in vain that someone would initiate a conversation with me. I am woefully lacking in the art of fabricating small talk, so to speak, for I find this sort of chitchat most tiresome. But I was soon rescued from this impasse for I noticed Constance stroll through the front door, which had been left open due, most likely, to the unseasonable balminess of the weather. I was delighted to see her, for her presence meant that I would have at least one companion with whom to engage in colloquy that would rank above the usual mindless party chatter. I had not seen Constance for the last five days.
After a warm embrace, I followed her across the room to the table where she deposited her gift on what had become a mountain of considerable height. I watched as she offered her greetings to the Altschulers and bestowed a kiss upon Dean Fletcher’s cheek, whereupon she returned to my station, extracted a beer from a cooler, expertly pried it open, and lifted it to her lips.
“I have not seen you of late,” I said. “Where, if I may ask, have you been?”
“My favorite aunt had a stroke,” she said..
“Please allow me to express my sincere condolences at your news,” I said. “Poor woman.”
“Thank you, Ishmael. I flew to Minneapolis to visit her. Got back last night. Luckily my class doesn’t begin until next week.”
“Alas, mine has already commenced.”
“How goes it?” she asked.
“It is too premature to tell but I am not optimistic. Except for one, my students are thoroughly disinterested.”
Constance nodded and delicately used a tortilla chip to scoop some guacamole from a large bowl. After consuming it, she glanced at the gifts that were piled upon the table. “What did you get him?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Dean Fletcher, of course,” she said. “What sort of gift?”
“I purchased an item known as a blender.”
She gave me a confused look. “How do you know he doesn’t already own a blender? Most people do.”
This had not occurred to me. “I confess that I do not know if he is already in possession of a blender. I did not ask him, as a query of that sort would surely have spoiled the surprise element.”
“Seems somewhat inappropriate to me since it’s a bon voyage party and I strongly doubt he will have much use for a blender in Scotland.”
“One never knows. He may need to blend something whilst in Scotland.”
“Like what?”
“I do not know,” I said. “But let us please cease discussing this controversy regarding kitchen appliances. What, pray tell, did you purchase?”
“A compact toiletry organizer,” she said. “Very handy, very small. Won’t take up much room in his suitcase.”
“Admittedly a far better choice than a blender.”
Constance and I then repaired to an unoccupied couch in a corner of the parlor. Deafening dance music now emanated from two small speakers. I noticed then that Constance’s eyes were studying Dean Fletcher.
“Is Dean Fletcher married or otherwise involved with a woman?” she asked.
“I do not believe so. If he is attached to a female, he has never made mention of it to me.”
“Do you think him handsome?”
I cleaned my glasses before attempting to examine the dean’s features from afar. “I am no expert on the subject of male magnetism, Constance,” I said, “but he is certainly not in the same league as Quasimodo or Mary Shelley’s monster, of that I am certain.”
“Thanks. That’s very helpful.”
“You are welcome,” I said. “Why pray tell do you ask?”
She shrugged. “No particular reason.”
But apparently there was a reason because, after excusing herself, Constance rose and casually walked in the direction of the dean who now stood alone at the table, pouring himself a libation. I watched as Constance sidled up beside him and studied the deviled eggs that I had recently arrayed on a tray in perfect rows, and which I now noted were not perfectly symmetrical anymore as people had eaten some, thereby destroying my efforts. Such gall! The dean turned to her, offered his hand and a moment later, they joined the others who were gyrating on the dance floor. Constance was something of a frenzied dancer and uninhibitedly thrust her arms in the air and wiggled her buttocks in a suggestive manner while the dean shuffled his feet attempting unsuccessfully to capture the rhythm of the music. Every now and again they leaned close to each other to converse and I observed Constance laugh heartily at nearly everything Bob uttered.
Carrying a gin and tonic with a wedge of lime, Sandra collapsed beside me on the couch, pulled off her high heels with a grunt and placed her feet atop the glass coffee table. As feet go, they were quite attractive, devoid of unsightly veins, corns or bunions, although her flesh did bear the imprint of her shoe straps. Her toenails were painted a festive red.
“These fucking shoes are killing me,” she said.
“Yet you appear to be quite healthy,” I said.
She ignored my reply. “Having a good time, Archer?”
“It’s a splendid festivity,” I said in a monotone. As she was the hostess, I thought it wise to evade her question because I was not having a pleasant time at all. I was, in fact, thoroughly consumed by boredom.
“Neither am I,” she said, placing a hand on my thigh, a mere three inches from the location of my genitalia. I felt a stir in that region, a sense not dissimilar to the one I had experienced when she had embraced me upon my arrival. “To be honest, I only agreed to throw this lousy bash because Eliot insisted. Who gives a shit if Dean Fletcher is going to Scotland to play golf? Do you?”
“Not in the least,” I said. “In actuality, I—”
“Hey!” she said. “How about I show you the house? It’s really quite charming. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”
I cleared my throat and gazed at my timepiece. “Very kind, but to be perfectly honest, Sandra, I was just about to remove my buttocks from the couch and depart the premises, so perhaps we can perform this adventure at—”
But Sandra disregarded my unimaginative attempt to delay said guided expedition. “It sort of reminds me of the house in The House of Seven Gables,” she said, “ except there aren’t any gables, whatever a fucking gable is.”
“In point of fact, a gable is a canopy-like structure positioned over a window or a door, usually a window, I believe, although my knowledge of architectural embellishments is minimal,” I said.
But she was not listening. After do
wning the remainder of her drink, she stood unsteadily on her bare feet, grabbed my hand and attempted to pull me out of my seat. I gave in to her tug and rose. Ushering me across the dance floor, she led me directly toward the stairway and I followed her upstairs, although I was more than a little concerned that the other guests, and more importantly Eliot, might find this scenario somewhat questionable. There was no escape as Sandra had gripped my hand quite tightly and I did not wish to offend her by struggling to free myself. We walked down a long carpeted hallway and entered a room. As soon as we were inside, she closed the door.
“This, as you may have guessed, is the master bedroom,” she said. “The place where all the magic usually doesn’t take place.”
I surveyed the room in a polite manner and made an ambiguous remark regarding the décor, a subject that held no interest for me whatsoever.
“The bed is amazingly comfortable,” she said. “Would you care to try it, Archer? It has one of those amazing mattresses that conform to your body. Memory foam, I think they call it.”
“No, but thank you for the invitation,” I said. “If I do as you suggest, I may fall into a slumber as the party has dulled my senses, no offense.”
“None taken,” she said. “I agree.”
Sandra set her gluteus maximus on the edge of the bed and began to sniffle. This display soon turned into a bout of full-blown weeping, and she placed her hands over her eyes as if ashamed to be seen in her state of distress. “I’m so unhappy, Archer,” she said. “May I cry on your shoulder?”
As this would either require her to stand up or for me to sit beside her, and as she did not stand up, I reluctantly sank onto the bed, hoping that the deluge emanating from her lachrymal ducts would not significantly dampen my garments. But the next words out of her mouth contained nothing pertaining to her happiness or lack thereof. “Is it warm in here?” she asked. She seemed to have recovered from her teary episode with stunning alacrity.
“Not especially,” I said. “Perhaps a bit humid though.”
“Well, I’m sweating,” she said. Gazing at her, I perceived no evidence of perspiration on her brow. At that, she commenced to unbutton her blouse.
I was suddenly fearful regarding her intentions. “Perhaps I could open a window,” I said.
“They’re all stuck.”
“Air conditioner?”
“We don’t have one.”
“If I may inquire, how do you provide adequate ventilation?”
“Is that important to you, Archer?”
“Not really.”
Although I found Sandra Altschuler highly attractive and as I had not partaken of any sexual gymnastics for quite a long time, I was tempted to aid her in the dismantling of her blouse but I resisted the temptation. I did not savor the idea of being caught engaging in carnal relations with Eliot’s wife, in Eliot’s marital bed, in Eliot’s house with a roomful of guests below that included Dean Fletcher and Constance. But how would I decline without hurting her feelings?
“Incidentally,” I said. “It so happens that I am still in possession of the hat you so graciously lent me during the recent blizzard in April.”
“I don’t think I’ll be needing it right now, Archer,” she said. She hooked her index finger at me. “Come here.”
Fortunately, I was saved from any further entanglement by Eliot’s voice that seemed to originate from the foot of the stairs. “Sandra, darling!” he shouted. “Where in blazes are you? Bob’s going to open his gifts now. Please come down! You mustn’t miss this.”
With a groan, Sandra hurriedly re-buttoned her blouse, then stood up and walked toward the door. Before pulling it open, she sighed audibly and pronounced the word, “Fuck.”
Although I did not wish to be present at the opening of the gifts, I counted to ten and followed her out.
Chapter Six
The following Wednesday morning, I was relieved to discover that all five of my students had deposited their assignments in my mail slot, although it was immediately apparent, though not in the least surprising, that save for Ms. Bird, none had submitted more than one short paragraph, which indicated to me that my male students had not ventured beyond the minimum requirement.
As I sat at my desk, I unfolded each of the pages, stacked them into a neat pile and leaned back in my chair to face the music, so to speak. Because I fully expected Ms. Bird’s work to be infinitely superior to the rest, I decided to save hers for last—a sort of dessert following a dreadful meal—and placed it on the other side of my desk. And so, with a red pencil clutched between my fingers, I began my tedious chore, hoping to be pleasantly surprised. But it was not long before I comprehended why the seniors had failed their creative writing courses the first time around.
My Favorite Foods
By Adam Walker
My favorite food is Cheetos. They are very testy and I can eet a hole giant size bag of them while I watch a baseball game or a realtie show on my 45 inch flat screen TV, which also has a very cool sound system. I bought it at Radio Shuck last year and I think I got a pretty good deal. I enjoy beer too and spicey Gwacamolee with chips. Also the burgers at the College Cafateria are delicious with hot sauce. I don’t like onions tho. They make my breathe stink and my girlfriend will not kiss me.
The End.
My Mom and Dad
By Terry Williger
I was born in Phoenix, which is located in the state, of Arizona, USA. My mother, is taller than my father is but she is a nice person anyway and I love her. My father took me to the horse races in town once when I was just a little kid? He bet five bucks on a brown horse name of Pokey and lost. Then he gave me two dollars that I bet on a horse called Sundance. I won two dollars and thirty-six cents. After that, we bought a couple of hot dogs and went home.
The Yellow Ferrari
By Tom Riverdale
Professor Archery teaches my creative writing class I think he is a great guy. I hope I will learn a lot about how to write things from him. If I get a C, I will graduate from college and get a good job in a factory or maybe be a lawyer, who makes a good salary. One day I’d like to have a yellow Ferrari because they are babe magnets but if I can’t get a yellow one I’ll take a red one.
Mr. Jones
By Jerome Weathers
Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the pop-holes. With the ring of light from his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard, kicked off his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer from the barrel in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where Mrs. Jones was already snoring.
After perusing these first four travesties, I was overtaken by the desire to bang my head on my desk, an exercise that I performed four times, once for each of the papers I had thus far read. How, I wondered, had these young men even managed to pass their other courses? Did History 101 or Biology 202 not require a modicum of ability in the use of the English language? How would they survive in the world with such a staggering paucity of basic writing skills?
With a weary sigh, I corrected the numerous misspellings in Mr. Walker’s delightful saga about his love of junk food, although it was a passion I shared, and his pride regarding his oversized television set. I then penned a few suggestions in the margins, all of which I assumed he would ignore.
Following that herculean effort, I corrected Mr. Williger’s grammatical errors, of which there were but a few, and pointed out that his mother’s tallness did not preclude her from being, as he put it, “nice.” I was pleased to note that there had been no misspellings. Bravo, Mr. Williger!
Mr. Riverdale’s effort, although an obvious attempt to curry my favor, caused me to guffaw. I found it most interesting that he would attempt to influence me and then proceed to spell my last name incorrectly. In the margin I wrote the words, “Nice try, Mr. Riverdale.
”
Mr. Weathers’ paper was an excellent piece of writing but I could not in good conscience give him anything above a failing grade because his submission was a verbatim copy of the opening paragraph of Mr. George Orwell’s novel, Animal Farm. He had not even bothered to change the names. I marked a bold F at the top of the page and wrote the words “PLAGIARISM!” and “Unacceptable” in large letters over his written words.
Praying for a relief from the drudgery, I began to read Ms. Bird’s composition.
The Odyssey of My First Date
By Abigail Bird
The year was nineteen eighty-four. His name was Ulysses. For our first meeting, he had chosen a clean well-lighted place on the waterfront, far from the madding crowd, on Tobacco Road in a suburb called Wuthering Heights. Admittedly, I had great expectations. It was a beautiful day—the wind in the willows, fragrant leaves of grass and I was overcome by a remembrance of things past because it reminded me of my life in Winesburg, Ohio. It was such a clear day I felt that I could see from here to eternity.
I saw him walk past the fountainhead and over the bridge of San Luis Rey where he almost bumped into the man with the tin drum. He was whistling the Song of Solomon when he entered. We said hello and he told me that he wasn’t that hungry because he’d eaten cakes and ale at the Hotel New Hampshire.
He’d brought me a single flower, but I didn’t know the name of the rose. I saw birds and watched one fly over the cuckoo’s nest. Nearby I noticed a rabbit run.
We talked about a lot of things—about the importance of being earnest, of time and the river, of mice and men, of sons and lovers, of pride and prejudice, and about his sister Carrie. We decided to meet again the next day and have breakfast at Tiffany’s followed by a naked lunch on the beach at the homesick restaurant.
If all went well, he said, we would lie down in darkness and experience the joy of sex. The next day, he booked a room with a view.
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 5