“Would you describe yourself as an easy or hard grader?” Arthur asked, figuring that her response might be long enough that he could zone out and have a pleasant, little virtual nap.
“Hard. You?”
Damn, he thought, not at all prepared for a serious discussion. He said, “I’ve been described as tough but fair in my real classes, but for SMS 301 I thought I’d employ one of those indecipherable check, check plus, check minus systems that so many of my colleagues use to allow them to give A’s to students they really like and F’s to students who have the temerity to think for themselves.”
“I hate those systems. Why do they do that?”
“Because, in most cases, they lack the reasoning and math skills of a mildly retarded newt.”
“You can’t say that.”
“I’m not always politically incorrect, but when I am, I prefer to pick on a group with very little lobbying muscle. Do you have strong feelings about the family Salamandridae?”
“I thought you were talking about the politician.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Well then, I suppose it is okay, just don’t pick on pandas.”
“I would never.”
“Is that your car?”
“It’s a classic 1957 Triumph TR3, and I’ll not tolerate any disparaging remarks about her. She is the love of my life.”
“She’s cute in a middle-life crisis sort of way.”
“If I had a child and had to choose, well, there would be one more orphan.”
Wen Hu climbed into the tiny sports car. Arthur pulled a pair of pretentious driving gloves from his pocket, placed the key into the ignition, and paused to give the moment the reverence it deserved, before twisting his wrist. The engine roared in an understated British sort of way. He said, “Put your seat belt on, Lou.” The car pulled away with a satisfying roar.
“It’s Hu.”
“What’s on second? I don’t know who’s on first.”
“That’s getting old fast.”
“Until you get the joke, I’m going to stay with it.”
Wen Hu whipped out her iPhone, and her thumbs began to pound on the screen. Arthur barely had time to ponder what she might be up to when he heard the familiar routine. He was both impressed and a little horrified at how quickly she found it. Wen laughed a little.
Wen put her phone away and said, “We’re here.”
“I see that,” said Arthur in a voice that was decidedly unexcited.
“The Apple store doesn’t have curb service; we’ll need to go in.”
“I’m saying a prayer.”
“What for?”
“I’m saying a little something lamenting the loss of the life I’ve so enjoyed. I shall never again be able to unleash a torrent of derision at Eric when he giggles like a schoolgirl at each new Apple announcement. It’s really vulgar.”
“What?”
“His fanboydom.”
“You know the term ‘fanboy’?”
“Eric explained it to me between Applegasms the night before the iPhone 4S came out. He was standing on that very spot, there,” Arthur said, pointing towards the sidewalk outside the Apple store.
“Who is Eric?”
“He is one of a very small list of people I can tolerate for extended periods of time.”
“How many lists do you suppose you’re on?”
Arthur undid his seatbelt and got out of the car. The smirk on Wen’s face was noted and filed away for a future rebuttal.
Wen held the door for Arthur who paused and then was thrust into the 21st century by his feisty new TA’s double-hand push to the back. If Arthur were to guess, she had to put all hundred pounds of her into the shove.
A woman with an air of suburbia housewife, in a blue “genius” shirt, smiled as if she weren’t peddling wares that were surely the first sign of the apocalypse, and asked, “How may I help you, today?”
Arthur affixed his best nonchalant expression, which did an admirable job of hiding his fear of looking stupid. Answering in a similarly calm fashion was more than he could muster. He focused on the woman’s name tag, which read Allison.
Wen said, “Professor Byrne needs a new phone.”
Allison said, “What type of phone are you looking to upgrade from?”
Wen said, “His phone is probably a little older than he would care to admit. Why don’t we just see what you have?”
“Well, as you know, the iPhone 5s is out and is very exciting. The apps are wonderful. Would you like to see one?”
Arthur didn’t know what an app was, but it was the sort of question he could answer without fear of messing up. He said, “Yes, please.”
For the next ten minutes, Allison Suburbia talked about features, her voice rising more than an octave at the really important parts. He wondered if she had a teenage daughter going through her “OMG” shouting phase. His writer’s mind kept him entertained as she droned on about things beyond his ability to comprehend or appreciate. Allison Suburbia was easily encouraged with gentle nods of fauxstanding, he thought. He made a mental note to write “fauxstanding” down later. Making up words made Arthur happy.
Arthur said yes to a question he hadn’t heard, which led to a typing of and adding up prices that almost caused him to black out. Somehow, Wen had his credit card and was explaining iTunes. Arthur had heard of iTunes, and because of his love of music, it seemed far less objectionable than anything else said. He decided to pay attention.
Wen explained downloading, and Arthur had the presence of mind to make a suggestion. A moment later he had purchased “Messin’ with the Man.” Arthur hit play and said, “Originally done by Junior Wells. This was released on the Chess label in 1961.”
Allison said, “I don’t know much about music, but I like how it sounds. It’s good.”
Arthur smiled, “Louis Armstrong once said, ‘If it sounds good, it is good.’”
Allison said, “Well, you can find almost any song imaginable on iTunes, and, of course, there are lots of fun apps.”
Wen got excited and asked if she could borrow Arthur’s new phone. He shrugged and handed it to her. When she handed it back, it had another app on it. She said, “This is a game I just bought for you - well, you bought it, but I think you’ll like it.”
Arthur looked at her and said, “So, are we done spending my money?”
“You’ve got a case, a plan, and a phone. We’re done for now.”
Arthur thanked Allison, and he and Wen Hu left. While he drove Wen back to campus, she programmed in her phone number and downloaded the Twitter app, explaining that she would help him set up all the important stuff tomorrow.
When Arthur got home, he set his new phone down next to the rotary phone on the kitchen counter. He opened the refrigerator as he often did only to curse his meager selection of choices. There were bananas and cheese. He grabbed a banana and picked up the rotary phone and dialed China House but hung up before they answered.
He wanted to curl up and sulk, but Arthur summoned all his strength. Using his new iPhone 5s, he pushed the little phone icon and dialed the number for China House again. There were few things that a massive helping of shrimp lo mein couldn’t cure.
CHAPTER FIVE
As a hobby, waxing nostalgic was nearer to poison than drug. Arthur slid the vinyl from its sleeve and carefully placed the needle down. It was the second copy of Who’s Next he had owned. In mint condition like all of his albums, Roger Daltrey, Pete Townshend, Keith Moon, and John Entwistle sounded as good as they had the first time he heard them in 1971.
The dumplings were fine, and the lo mein would keep until tomorrow, but the twelve-year old Glen Moray was like a warm, familiar, blanket. Arthur pushed aside the day’s events, closed his eyes, and tiptoed back to the tiny apartment in the village on the west side of Lower Manhattan. The record was playing there, too. Between songs, Arthur returned to the present.
Less than six feet away on a writing desk sat his lonely typewriter, dusty and
without a voice. A crisp stack of paper was at the ready and, with the exception of the top sheet, would be glad to accept a tale. Arthur didn’t have a story to tell.
Students, en route to bars, laughed with the Joie de vivre that comes with a life yet lived. Arthur watched from his porch. A small black cat appeared on the railing and said, “Meow.”
“I’ve nothing for you. ‘Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian Shore.’”
Quoth the kitty, “Meow.”
“I can see that was lost on you, little furry one. Such is life,” Arthur said. He stood and went back inside. The final song neared the end, and he returned the needle to its carriage. His own ominous bird of yore sat stately upon his kitchen counter. He dialed one of the few numbers he knew and waited.
“Hello, this is Eric.”
“Eric, what are you up to?”
“Where are you calling from?”
“I’ve been pulled kicking and screaming into a new century.”
“Do you mean this century or the last?”
“I am the less than proud owner of an iPhone 5s.”
“Good for you. You coming down to the bar?”
“I might. I just wanted to make sure this thing worked.”
“See you later,” Eric said. The background noise of a new semester-in-wait ended.
Arthur did like the look of the phone but not so much that he wanted to waste any more time goofing around with it. The Tiffany lamp cast an easy light on his favorite chair. The book that waited wasn’t what he needed. Arthur went back to his bedroom and pulled Elmore Leonard’s Djibouti off the shelf. He had bought it a couple of years ago but not gotten around to giving it a look. Arthur used to read E.L. all the time back in the day.
The pages were just as brilliant as he knew they would be. He drank in the dialog. The hours were pleasant, and the drink did its job.
He had been dreaming when the horrible sound of an alarm shook him awake. The book, still on his lap, fell to the floor. It was morning. Arthur was confused. The sound didn’t stop, so he got up and found that his phone was making all the racket. “Hello?”
“It’s Wen. Good morning, Dr. Byrne.”
“First of all, why would I possibly want to be up before noon on my last day to sleep in, and, secondly, there has never been such a thing as a good morning.”
“I’ll bring you a coffee to the meeting.”
“What meeting?”
“I took the liberty of scheduling a meeting with the rest of the TAs. I was sure you’d want to meet everyone before tomorrow.”
“What time is it?”
“It is 7:30. I’ve already been jogging.”
“What the hell is wrong with you, Lou?”
“Nothing. I’m young.”
“I’m going back to bed,” he said and hung up.
The doorbell rang. Arthur’s head was throbbing more than most days, and he was prepared to give the Mormons a piece of his mind. He swung open the door to find his annoyingly eager TA standing before him. “Lou, you’ve got the tenacity of one of those really annoying little dogs that people tend to tire of and leave at kill shelters.”
She thrust her hand forward and said, “Double mocha latte.”
“Thanks, come in. I’ll take a shower and then we can drop you at the shelter. Help yourself to either a piece of cheese or a banana.”
One hour and seven minutes later Arthur stood before a crowd of young people all with the same eager look that Wen flaunted at every turn. “I suppose we should begin with introductions as we are going to be suffering through this semester together unless I decide to take the coward’s way out...which is likely. I’m Dr. Byrne, and I teach literature. I do not, as Lou can attest...”
A smartly dressed man, probably mid-twenties, said, “Who’s Lou? Is he dreamy?”
“Wen can explain how I’ve come to call her Lou later, but for now let’s just assume our brief time together will be unpleasant. That being said, it is probably best not to form any attachments with ritualistic name learning, so Kurt, to answer your question, Lou is not your type, I’d wager.”
The smartly dressed man said, “Did you call me Kurt because of Glee?”
“Was that offensive?” Arthur said, not really caring.
“Now he is dreamy...so, no, I’ll take it. Are you a ‘gleek’, Dr. Byrne?”
“I don’t think I rise to the level of gleek per se, but I’ve taken in an episode or two.”
“You know, I am totally a gleek. I simul-tweet every episode and host a chat afterwards.”
“Moving on. Obviously, you’re Lawrence.”
“Why can’t I be Barack?”
“Because I am going to need you to ‘act’ like a social media professional, not the President. If you get Oprah’s endorsement, we can change your nickname.”
A nervous redhead averted her eyes.
“You’ll be...”
“Susan?”
“Definitely not...okay, you can be Susan, only because I don’t care for Pippy and I think Wendy’s could do a better job with their fries.”
The red haired girl looked relieved.
Arthur paused, partly for effect and partly to survey the young man. His bushy eyebrows and receding hairline didn’t really work for his age. The skate punk t-shirt seemed to make sense and went well with his teenaged goth angst frame, but Arthur couldn’t get past wanting him to have a bushy mustache to go with the eyebrows. He said, “And you, you shall be Rudyard.”
He looked at Arthur and said, “What sort of name is Rudyard?”
“I thought you might be interesting, like the extraordinary writing of Rudyard Kipling. You have his eyebrows, but, alas, it seems I’ve misjudged. You shall be A.”
“A what?”
“Just the letter A. If you are good, I might be willing to give you a consonant or two to go with it.”
Kurt said, “Dr. B, what is your background in social media? I googled you, and I didn’t find anything. Well, except that you wrote a book.”
“You have uncovered my terrible secret. I’m literate and prefer books. I’ve been given this horrible assignment as punishment for living a life that suits me.”
“So, how are you going to teach a class about...”
“That is a reasonable question, but the more important question is how is it going to reflect on you, my bright-eyed Glee enthusiast.”
“Okay, how is it going to reflect on us?”
“Though I am likely to be a horrific teacher of social media, I am able to craft superb letters of recommendation that will make a prospective employer weep. So, though the next few months will be a burden, and I will do as little as possible to pull my weight, if we survive, I will make it right for you all with the power of my pen.”
Lawrence said, “Cool.”
Susan didn’t look sure, but Kurt seemed happy with the answer. A. had stopped listening and was furiously texting. Arthur was pleased with himself and declared the meeting adjourned.
CHAPTER SIX
Arthur gave a lengthy explanation of how much he didn’t wish to be disturbed. His secretary had heard it before but rarely with such numerous references to medieval torture devices. He locked his door and turned off the lights she turned on each morning.
Arthur moved the mouse, the computer came to life, and he clicked on the browser icon. He knew two things about computers, and he had just exhausted 50 percent of his knowledge with his first click. He went to the URL, his second bit of computer understanding, and typed www.google.com.
The page was clean and uncluttered, which provided no small measure of comfort. Arthur stared at it. He took in all the white space and let it wash over him. Tomorrow, he was to pass himself off as an expert in something that every single student had been using since before puberty. There wouldn’t be one among them who saw this screen and had their stomach knot with worry about what to do next.
Arthur pulled a yellow pad from his desk and ground a brand new Dixon Ticonderoga N
o. 2 into a fine point. He wrote, Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. His fingers tapped, How do I...He stopped as a little window started trying to guess what he wanted to do. He added the word register, and Google, in bold, suggested “to vote, a business name, my Kindle.”
I don’t have a Kindle, but it seems to know I like books, Arthur thought. Arthur also thought of a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. He was the rube being amazed by the strange man from the future. He didn’t like feeling like a dullard.
For a Twitter account? The little, blue button with the magnifying glass was the only button, so he clicked on it. His first search returned 88,600,000 results, a number that was staggering except in politics. The first result he read aloud was “Twitter/Create an Account.” His hand hovered over the mouse and was brought back.
He wrote on the yellow pad, How do I register for a Twitter account?
Arthur typed, How do I keep from looking stupid in class? The first few results of the 126,000,000 available seemed unhelpful, but it was obvious one could ask Google anything. That was comforting. Why do I feel so tired? he thought. He went back to his first search and clicked on the link to Twitter.
The first question was simple, his full name, but then it got complicated. Twitter wanted to know his email address. Arthur didn’t know his email address. His secretary did, but she would give him a disapproving look if he asked. It seemed Arthur had no recourse. He would take a nap.
The nap wasn’t restful.
Arthur went to Edgar’s Pit and ordered a full-price burger basket, which still seemed to be underpriced. Most days he would have sat at the bar but today he took a booth in the back. Eric found him anyway.
“Let’s see it.”
Arthur took out his phone and laid it on the table. Eric nodded and said, “You made a good choice.” Eric picked it up and fiddled with it for a minute. “What’s your iTunes password?”
Underwood, Scotch, and Wry Page 2