But my days were brightened by thoughts of the thoroughly beguiling Ms. Bird, with whom I had developed something beyond a mere rapport, or so I believed. Let us just say that she intrigued me, for she was a breath of fresh air, as it were, a welcome climatic change to my otherwise dreary, overcast life, if you’ll pardon the meteorological analogy. I found her to be warm-hearted and possessed of a delightful sweetness that touched me. As an added element, she shared my profound interest in literature as well as bacon. Of course, I did not act upon these agreeable sensations nor did I even hint at them. Having been callously rebuffed by my wicked spouse as well as the two aforementioned women, I felt the necessity to first determine conclusively whether or not Ms. Bird had a similarly positive attitude toward me. Most likely, she did not, for we had only known each other for a short period of time. Be that as it may, I strongly desired to see her again in a place other than the classroom, but asking her to accompany me on a formal assignation would, I concluded, be perilous. I certainly did not want to make a pathetic fool of myself by forcing my extracurricular presence upon her. Perchance she did not wish to involve herself in a rather clichéd affiliation with a professor. Or maybe she still harbored misgivings that such an association might be of some professional danger to me, despite my assurances that it would not. But as a youngish male of the species, I possessed a natural desire for friendship that perhaps held the promise of emotional and possibly physical intimacy.
But how would I determine whether Ms. Bird shared the infatuation I secretly held for her? Thus far I had not received any obvious indicators from her, at least none that I was able to decipher, although I admittedly possess a distinct tendency to be utterly oblivious to such subtle gestures. Yet she had recently voiced the opinion that I was handsome which I found encouraging, although her praise regarding the comeliness of my visage was insufficient evidence.
Having not seen her for several days, a state of affairs that was entirely my fault as I had stupidly canceled two sessions of my class, I decided to venture to Phil’s Rib and Steak Emporium in the hope that she would be working that particular night. My strategy was to make her believe that my presence at her place of employment was nothing more than a coincidence. Thus, one evening, I appeared at said establishment and was ushered to a table by a hostess.
Edging my body into the booth, I surreptitiously glanced around the room, but alas I did not espy Ms. Bird on the premises. I contemplated departing but I was greatly in need of nourishment and I did fancy beef products of numerous varieties, thus I remained seated. Whilst I perused the listing of various choices of beef and baby back ribs, a young server of sizeable proportions materialized before me.
“Hi!” she said. Her tone was annoyingly cheerful. “I’m Leslie!” Why she felt the urge to exclaim this information, I did not know.
“Greetings to you, Leslie,” I said. “I am known as Ishmael, but most people call me Archer.”
“That’s nice.”
She then placed a paper placemat that was emblazoned with a badly drawn picture of a dancing steak on the table, after which she performed the same action with a grease-stained menu, a set of flatware, several napkins, and a plastic container of water. “Are we ready to order a beverage or would we like a little more time?” she asked.
This seemed somewhat premature as I had just received the menu and had not yet had an opportunity to inspect its pages. “The latter,” I said. “I require a bit more time to decide.”
“Take as long as you want, honey,” she said.
While carefully examining the flatware and plastic water container for stains, I caught sight of Ms. Bird emerging from a hallway. I watched covertly as she ambled to the kitchen and then, a few moments later, departed said area with a tray stacked with foodstuffs, which she then carried unsteadily toward a table. She did not see me at first and I pretended that I did not see her either, but during her journey to this neighboring table she abruptly stopped which almost caused her to drop her tray.
“Professor Archer!” she said. “How nice to see you.”
I commented that it was indeed a pleasure to behold her as well and marveled at the coincidental nature of our meeting. Her hair was stacked upon her head, held together by hairpins, though a few tendrils had loosened and fell about her neck. She wore an apron over her ensemble and sported black shoes that appeared to be of an orthopedic type. I presumed that she wore this footwear for the purpose of relieving her feet from the pain of lengthy periods of standing upright.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I had planned to partake of a meal.”
“I suspected as much, as this is a restaurant,” she said. “But I didn’t take you for the type of person who liked steak and ribs.”
“Au contraire, I do indeed,” I said. “Also my physician informed me…um…yesterday that my hemoglobin level was not up to its desirable level and suggested that I ingest large quantities of red meat, lest I become anemic. This appears to be the only restaurant in town that specializes in such delicacies.”
“There are a number of burger establishments on East Main Street,” she said.. “A Burger King and a MacDonald’s if I’m not mistaken.”
“I am aware,” I said. “But one never knows what sort of noxious debris is contained in the hamburger meat that is customarily offered at such fast food establishments.”
“True.”
“I have read several articles regarding the sort of animal refuse, including fecal matter, contained in these hamburgers.”
“I’ve heard that too,” she said. “Disgusting.”
She then abruptly turned her head to sneeze and, after this nasal outburst had subsided, reached for the napkin holder on my table, accidentally knocking over the saltshaker in the process. She righted the shaker, swept the salt from the table and blew her nose quite loudly into the napkin. Then she sneezed again, and I mouthed the word, “Gesundheit .”
“Thank you, Professor.”
“Are you ill, Ms. Bird?”
“No,” she said, “although I do suffer from allergies at this time of year. Ragweed and such.”
“A pity.”
“Sometimes I get a bad rash in the oddest places but mostly I just sneeze.”
“How unpleasant.”
“Runny nose too and some phlegm as well.”
“My sympathies.”
For some unknown reason, she was gazing at my neck. “I see you’re wearing a bowtie again, Professor.”
“I believe we had this conversation several days ago,” I said. “I am beginning to think that you do not care for them.”
“Not at all.” I noted that her tone lacked conviction.
“The bow tie has quite an illustrious and fascinating history,” I said. “Would you care to hear about it?”
“Perhaps at another time.”
“Of course.”
“What I meant to say before was that a tie of any sort is appropriate on campus, but I believe it’s somewhat formal for Phil’s Rib and Steak Emporium. Nobody here is dressed quite so formally.”
I surveyed the room and perceived that she was correct. The other patrons sported T-shirts and blue jeans.
“You might consider removing it and opening your collar. I don’t mean to be critical of your attire. I’m just concerned with your comfort.”
“I will consider your advice,” I said.
“If you plan to order ribs, I would also suggest that you roll up your sleeves as a precaution.”
“Excellent point,” I said. “Yet this would still expose the front of my shirt. Does this establishment perchance provide protective accoutrements known as bibs?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“A woeful oversight,” I said. “Bibs are most practical accessories.”
“I completely agree.”
I smiled. This was yet an
other subject upon which we agreed—the practicality of bibs!
At that, I noticed a nearby gentleman with a party of four waving his hand at Ms. Bird. In a tone of voice that was decidedly ill-disposed, he called, “Yo, miss, we’re kinda starving over here, hello!”
“I’ll be there in a second,” Ms. Bird said. Then to me, in a low voice, she said, “I must go and attend to him before the poor man and his family die of starvation. May I join you when I’m on my break?”
“That would be splendid,” I said, whereupon she smiled warmly and hastened to the booth that contained the starving man and his family. Oh joy, oh joy! She wished to spend her hiatus in my company!
While she was gone, tending to her duties, I removed my bow tie and opened the top button of my shirt, thus making my sartorial appearance more appropriate to my surroundings.
Ten minutes later, as I was chomping on an onion ring that tasted as if it had been fried in motor oil, she slid into my booth. Though she did not utter a word regarding the alteration of my image, she did glance at my neck and smile in an approving way. “I’m afraid to ask, but how do you like the food, Professor?”
“I can literally feel my cholesterol level rising toward the ionosphere with every bite, although the owner, who I assume is named Phil, should perhaps provide his clientele with hacksaws with which to cut the meat.”
Ms. Bird laughed. “You’re not the first one to point that out, although I imagine a chain saw might be more efficient.”
I chuckled. Such a charming sense of humor she had! “Indeed.”
“Although I’m happy to see you, Professor, I believe I mentioned several days ago that the food in this place is barely edible.”
As I did not wish to reveal my true purpose in appearing on the premises, I merely said, “So you did.”
“Yet here you are.”
“As I am a devoted carnivore, I had a profound craving for a thick steak,” I said. “I did not know it would be an arduous carving of a thick steak.”
She erupted with a chortle.
And so we chatted for the duration of her break. Our conversation evolved into a spirited, albeit short discussion of The Mill on the Floss by Miss Mary Ann Evans (known by the pseudonym, George Eliot), specifically the complex relationship between Mollie Tulliver and her brother Tom. I found Ms. Bird’s thoughts on the matter most perceptive. As we spoke, I was so enchanted by her eyes, her hair, her lips, her dimple, her chin, her forehead, her ears, her neck, and her shapely figure that I had to remind myself to occasionally look away, lest she think that I was engaged in ogling which, in actuality, I was. After a time, we spoke of other subjects of a nonliterary nature.
“Tell me, Professor,” she said. “Do you have any exciting plans for the long Memorial Day weekend?”
“Not as of yet,” I replied. “I was planning on relaxing with a good book or two, perhaps perform a few errands that I have been putting off for weeks.”
“I may just stay home and read too. Or maybe I’ll read in the park if the weather permits.”
At that, Ms. Bird looked at her watch and I feared that she would soon leave the table and continue her work delivering oversized portions of meat to the restaurant’s clientele.
But she did not rise. “I think there’s an arts and crafts festival in town tomorrow,” she said. “I’ve seen a few signs posted around town. I’m sure the artwork will be appalling, but I imagine there will be other amusements, maybe food and music.”
“I too have encountered a great many placards of this nature plastered to telephone polls and in the windows of shops around the town,” I said.
“There’s so little to do in this town.”
“Quite true.”
“In truth, I had no plans to go to this event but I might get bored without some diversion,” she said. “And I don’t want to go alone.”
A moment of silence ensued. As I did not know how to fill this break in the conversation, I sipped at my water. When I looked at her, she appeared to be staring at me with an expression that seemed somewhat impatient.
“Maybe l’ll attend the art fair after all, dreadful as it will most likely be,” she said finally. After another lull in the conversation, she added, “Would you, by any small chance…care to join me?”
My reply to this query did not require much thought on my part. “That would be excellent!” I told her.
“Although…”
“Although what?”
“Although once again I fear this may be a violation of college ethics, specifically the dictum regarding students consorting with teachers, if such a dictum actually exists.”
“Pish tosh,” I said. “As I have stated before, please do not worry yourself, Ms. Bird. If by some miniscule chance we are observed in each other’s company, we shall simply claim that we encountered each other at the fair by coincidence. In truth, I do not really care and am willing to risk it.”
“All right then.” With that, she strolled back toward the kitchen, turning once to give me a wave and a goofy scowl, which I took to indicate that she did not savor the prospect of returning to her duties and would perhaps have much preferred to remain with me. Or was I imagining this? A moment later, after I had left the restaurant and was attempting to locate my car in the crowded lot, I noticed that the rhythm of my steps had become more than a little sprightly.
As good fortune would have it, Ms. Bird and I spent much of the Memorial Day weekend together, an unpredictably elongated date that commenced at the art fair and concluded at her front doorway two nights later. We had decided to take separate cars to the fair and when we noted each other’s presence at the appointed meeting place, I was pleased to note that she had arrived at the exact time that we had previously decided upon. As per her previous advice, I did not sport my bow tie as I wished to please her sartorially. Her ensemble included a long summer dress, thick leather sandals, a floppy straw hat that sat asymmetrically on her head, and a pair of clip-on sunglasses over her regular spectacles. She looked so utterly stunning that I reacted with a gasp.
“Are you all right, Professor?” she asked. “You seem to be gasping.”
“It is nothing,” I said. I struggled momentarily to fabricate a credible explanation. “You see, I parked my vehicle a fair distance from our agreed-upon meeting place and was therefore compelled to jog in order to appear before you at the precisely scheduled time.”
She closed one eye. “Do you often jog?” she said..
“At least once or twice a year but only in situations such as this to avoid tardiness. And you?”
“Yes, I try to exercise twice a week, though I’m afraid I’m not especially adept at it, because I occasionally find myself tripping over my own feet which are somewhat large.”
I gazed down at her feet. Her assessment of their dimensions was accurate. “Alas, I own no clothing appropriate for jogging and I do not enjoy perspiration,” said I.
“Neither do I, although I’ve read that perspiration is a good way to cleanse the skin,” she said. “And I find that jogging accomplishes this and is also a worthwhile method for keeping the body fit as is the practice of proper eating habits and the occasional colon cleanse.”
“And you are certainly the very picture of fitness.” I regretted my words immediately for I feared that she would misinterpret them as a lewd observation regarding the shapeliness of her anatomy.
She blushed slightly. “Why, thank you, Professor. What a lovely compliment!”
As it happened, our prior assessment of the quality of the art had been correct as most of it consisted primarily of primitive renderings of the town’s waterfall, created with every medium imaginable including dyed gravel and colored chicken feathers. In most of these, the Falls had been enlarged to resemble the far grander one situated at Niagara. The food was the predictable mélange of home cookery but the craf
ts were of some interest, and at one of these booths Ms. Bird stopped to admire a set of inexpensive feather earrings, which the vendor assured her were of Algonquin provenance, though I strongly doubted that he was being entirely truthful. Nevertheless, she wished to purchase them, but after an interminable search through the debris of her enormous overstuffed purse, she was unable to locate her wallet so rather than wait for hours, I drew mine out of my trousers and bought said earrings for her. When I handed them to her, she thanked me profusely and promised to reimburse me for the cost at a later date.
“That will not be necessary, Ms. Bird,” I told her.
“I insist.”
“And I insist not. Consider it a gift.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“How very sweet of you, Professor,” she said. “Thank you!”
“My pleasure.”
A few minutes later, feeling the urge to empty the contents of my bladder, I excused myself and followed some primitively hand-lettered signs scrawled on erratically cut pieces of wood that led me to a phone booth-sized structure known as a Porto-Potty, which had been propped upon an elevated wooden stage in a shaded, well-hidden section of the parking lot. As I was about to enter the reeking enclosure, I espied Sandra’s convertible with the top up. Oddly, I had not seen her at the fair but I soon understood why. As a result of my altitude I was afforded a view of her head bobbing up and down, indicating quite clearly that she was in the process of performing fellatio on the gentleman who occupied the passenger seat. When he turned his head slightly, I immediately recognized him as one of the young lads who attended my writing class, none other than the talentless, length-obsessed Mr. Williger. Utterly fascinated, I watched them for a moment and then retreated into the revolting confines of the Porto-Potty, the toilet of which contained a floating piece of fecal matter the size of a bratwurst.
When I emerged from said moveable commode five minutes later, Sandra’s car was gone. I must confess that I was astounded by her audacity in performing a sexual act with a man other than her husband in broad daylight in a parking lot, although she had shown the good sense to park in a secluded area.
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 7