Tenure Track

by Victoria Bradley

  He arrived exactly at 8 p.m. The front door was ajar, with only a torn screen between him and the inside of the house. He knocked loudly before Julie answered, wearing a bathrobe and talking on her cell phone. She ushered him inside, motioning towards the couch before retreating back to her room to finish getting ready for the evening’s excursion.

  The house certainly looked better from the inside than from the outside. It was still pretty rundown, with hardwood floors that looked like they had not been polished nor even swept in months. There was little furniture in the living area save for a stereo, television set and futon sofa, now pulled out into a double mattress. A couple of rumpled sheets lay across the futon, signs of the houseguests who had only recently stirred from sleep to begin another round of nocturnal activities. A few random clothes, books and magazines were scattered about the room. Various posters reflecting the diverse tastes of the housemates decorated the walls. There was a Marine recruitment poster, a print of a painting depicting great African American leaders throughout history, the Power Puff Girls proclaiming “Girl Power,” and one Andy Warhol print of four pandas. Somehow he knew who the owned the panda print.

  Although there was a window box air conditioner in the room, it was not on at the moment. The open windows and doors let in the fresh smell of spring air, but the heat and humidity of the unusually warm day left the air a bit sticky. Lewis took off his hat and began fanning himself with it just as Mandy bounded down the stairs. She was dressed in tan chinos, with a tight-fitting spandex shirt that almost looked like the upper half of a bathing suit. She had her hair up in a clip, looser than he had seen in the Chug-a-Lug, with no makeup, yet still able to take his breath away.

  Nodding in approval, she congratulated him on following her wardrobe advice. “And you’re not wearin’ glasses! It looks good!” she pronounced. In fact, she was impressed by how much losing the glasses transformed his face. For the first time, she could really see into his deep blue eyes, which seemed to penetrate right through her. Breaking free from his gaze, she playfully punched him in the shoulder. “Great job, Dr. Burns. A+ for you!”

  His growing ego quickly deflated with the reminder that he was a teacher.

  “We’re still gettin ready,” Mandy explained, walking towards the kitchen as he followed like an obedient lapdog. “Would ya like a beer while ya wait?”

  As she turned towards the refrigerator, Lewis noticed that, although her tight-fitting shirt was gathered at the top, the lower-half was backless, exposing the top half of the heart tattoo that frequently guest-starred in his nightly visions.

  Accepting a longneck from Mandy’s hand, Lewis cleared this throat “Um, Amanda, um, I think by this point you can call me ‘Lewis’ instead of ‘Dr. Burns.’”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll call you ‘Lewis’ under one condition—that you call me ‘Mandy’ instead of ‘Amanda.’ I hate the name ‘Amanda.’ Only Momma calls me that.”

  He was a bit stunned. The thought had never occurred to him that she disliked her own name. Comparing him to her mother made him realize how he had been re-enforcing the age difference between them. The word was permanently abolished from his vocabulary.

  They sealed the agreement with a click of two beer bottles. They were no longer a teacher and a student, but “Lewis and Mandy,” a man and woman standing in a kitchen about to go out for an evening with friends. Mandy instructed him to hang out downstairs while she finished getting ready. As she left the kitchen, she gently touched the right side of his shirt in a millisecond gesture of affection that left him rapt with desire.

  Lewis wandered around downstairs, examining the magazines on the floor—a hodgepodge of gossip, glamour and entertainment lore. Other than the campus daily, there did not appear to be any newspapers nor serious news magazines around. After a few moments, he heard muffled footsteps coming from the first floor bedroom where Julie had retreated. Gus emerged, bare-chested, holding a shirt in his hands, fully exposing the snarled flesh along his right arm and side. The dogtags still hung around his neck, falling next to the words “Semper Fi” tattooed across his left pectoral muscle, right over the heart. Now that Lewis could see the tattoo on his left shoulder more clearly, he recognized it as the eagle, globe and anchor of the U.S. Marine Corps.

  It looked as if at least part of Gus’s injuries had been caused by burns. The scars ran all the way up his neck to a badly misshapen ear. Luckily, most of his ruggedly handsome face had been spared, save for a small, jagged memento above the right eyebrow. He was wearing khaki shorts and now had a prosthetic leg in place of the gap beneath his right torso. It was the most unusual prosthesis Lewis had ever seen—clear, with the mechanics covered by a design that looked like blood and nerve-endings, as if the skin and muscle had been ripped away from the leg, leaving the insides exposed. This thing was designed to draw attention, either to make others think or to make them uncomfortable. Lewis wondered what kind of a person would wear such a contraption. As they shook hands, Lewis awkwardly tried to apologize for their previous encounter.

  “No, prob,” Gus shrugged, pulling on a long-sleeved T-shirt that read “Ooh-Rah.” This jarhead is hardcore.

  A few moments later, Blanca came downstairs, wearing a black mini-dress and large hoop earrings. She glared at Lewis as he greeted her.

  “So,” she said, crossing her arms, “you thought Gus was a gangbanger, huh?”

  Taken aback, Lewis glanced at Gus, who held a bemused expression on his face as he fiddled with a small handheld device. Even though Blanca’s tone smacked of sarcasm, it stung because Lewis knew the accusation had been somewhat true.

  “Uh, excuse me?” Lewis asked, as if she had said something inappropriate in a class discussion.

  “You heard me,” she bellowed, raising one finger in the air. “Just don’t go offerin’ me any fried chicken and watermelon if you wanna make it home tonight!” Emphasizing the joke, she continued to mimic a stereotypical urban dialect. It definitely worked to make him uncomfortable. He was not used to being spoken to this way by a student. Blanca’s behavior contrasted sharply with their friendly banter on campus. Now he was on her territory and the power level had shifted. Gus chortled loudly at her performance, still focusing on the handheld.

  Lewis took a sip of beer and stood awkwardly leaning against the back of the couch as Blanca and Gus ignored him to prepare the evening’s plan of action. Apparently attending the music festival required a detailed battle strategy. They started joking about the unusual names of some of the bands.

  “Hey, we could go see Wakin’ Up Naked, followed by Bad Sex in the Mornin’,” Gus announced.

  “Hopefully followed by STD Test in the Afternoon,” Blanca joked.

  Lewis took in their conversation, but said nothing. Idly fiddling with the beer bottle, his brain failed to register when Gus called his name.

  “What kinda music do ya like?” Gus repeated. “We’re tryin’ to plan this so we hit a little somethin’ everybody likes.”

  Grateful that they were at least speaking to him, Lewis named the first group that came to mind, “Uh, U-2.”

  “Mmhmm,” said Blanca. “I don’t think they made it. Bono’s too busy savin’ Africa. See any other white Irish guys on the list?”

  Gus perused the clubs listings. “Hmmm, white Irish guys. ‘Bet we can find somethin’. Man’ and Jules wanna go see the Toob Sucks. That white enough for ya?”

  “The Tube Socks?” Lewis replied.

  “No, ‘Toob Sucks,’ like this—.“ He flashed the downloaded club listings to show how the band spelled its name. “It’s a play on words, ya know, like ‘The Tube Sucks.’ TV? KnowwhatImsayin’?”

  Feeling old again, Lewis replied, “I don’t think I’ve heard of them.”

  “They’re a local all-chick band. I call ‘em the Boob Sucks,” Gus explained.

  “Gus!” Blanca chided, slapping him on his scarred shoulder. “Their lead singer sounds a lot like Pink. ‘Hearda her?”

  Lewis no
dded, as if he knew what she was talking about. He recalled having heard of a singer named Pink, but was not sure that he could correctly identify any of her music. He pretended that he could, rather than reveal his ignorance of popular culture.

  Soon the group was joined by Julie and Gus’s younger brother, Gabe, a guitar player named whom Gus derisively called “Junior.” He was the one Lewis had seen with the spiky hair and double earrings. Gabe’s bandmates had already left for the evening, hoping to hang out among the early crowds and score some free food at happy hour buffets. The young musician was quite talkative, telling Lewis all about his band, Los Chicos Camorristas, who played Tejano Rock. Gabe said that the band had snagged a non-festival gig at a nearby honky-tonk the previous evening. All just out of high school, the band had quite a following along the border, Gabe bragged. Gus deflated his little brother’s ego by claiming that their following mainly consisted of high school students who had seen them play at the prom.

  Enthusiastic Gabe was not deterred by Gus’s put-downs. The teenager proudly showed off a copy of the band’s only CD, describing how he had designed the label for the homemade production on his PC. Gabe said that the CDs normally sold for $15, but offered Lewis a deal for $10. Feeling pressured, yet admiring the teenager’s enthusiasm and marketing skills, Lewis pulled out his wallet.

  Noticing the transaction taking place, Gus chastised his little brother again. “Junior, quit messin’ with him!”

  Lewis assured the husky Marine that he really wanted to check out the CD, although truthfully the professor never intentionally listened to Tejano music. The more Gus complained, the more determined Lewis became to make the purchase, sympathizing with Gabe’s situation as the victim of a somewhat overbearing elder brother.

  Blanca interjected. “You take him, Gabe. Make him reparate for thinkin’ you was a Blood.”

  “Shut up, Blanca,” Gus cut in. “Leave the dude alone.”

  Gabe ignored the others and gladly completed the transaction. “Be sure to check out our Web site,” he said, pointing to the address printed on the CD case. Does everybody under the age of 30 have a Web site? Lewis wondered.

  At that moment Mandy bounded down the stairs, dressed as she had been earlier, but now with her hair down and wearing makeup, more than usual at school, but less than when waitressing. Lewis wondered how she succeeded in maintaining the perfect balance for every occasion. This time when his heart started beating faster, he knew it was not from espresso.

  “Hey cher!” Blanca shouted. “The professor likes white guy music. Is Barry Manilow in town.”

  Mandy glared at her roommate. “Don’t . . . you . . . dare!”

  All at once, Gus, Blanca, and Julie broke into the chorus of the old Manilow song “Mandy,” apparently one of their roommate’s least favorite tunes. Used to the ribbing, Mandy stood dispassionately until they finished. “Okay, Lewis, as you can see, I live with a bunch of doofuses. Be prepared for abuse.”

  He actually felt slightly relieved upon realizing that their teasing was normal. This crowd was not going to cut him any slack for being a professor. This was a positive step towards being seen as a person more than a profession.

  Gus explained that they would all be going together in his car, since he had a disabled veteran license plate that would increase their chances of getting an elusive downtown parking space. Lewis quickly assessed how crowded it would be with six people in Gus’s Camry and offered to drive a second car, but Gus brushed him off, insisting the professor would never find a space.

  The group crowded into the car with Gus in the driver’s seat, Gabe on the passenger’s side with Julie sitting half on his lap, wedged tight against the middle console. In the backseat, Blanca straddled the middle hump between Lewis and Mandy, who both would have preferred sitting next to one another.

  Gabe insisted on playing his band’s CD so that Lewis could check out their style. In many ways they sounded like any generic teenage garage band—heavy on southern-rock-style guitar licks enhanced by nearly unintelligible Spanish and English lyrics. The CD was not of great quality and the vocals definitely needed work, but the instrumentation revealed some genuine talent.

  Gus indulged his younger brother’s enthusiasm for a few moments, then turned down the music and redirected the conversation towards the evening’s drinking plans. Apparently alcohol consumption had to be as well planned as the path to musical venues. Lewis realized that he and Gus were the only members of the group over 21, although apparently all of the younger members had very good fake I.D.s. Julie was the designated driver, because she lived in fear of hurting her naval career with an alcohol arrest. She used her fake I.D. just to get into over-21 clubs with her friends, but never bought her own liquor in a public place.

  “Well, I plan to get totally shitfaced, so it’s a good thing my girl’ll be drivin’ us home,” Gus announced.

  Gabe piped up, “Yeah, me too!”

  Big brother quickly shut him down. “Oh no you ain’t! If you get into trouble tonight I’ll be beatin’ your butt all the way back to Nana’s house, and she’ll give you a second beatin’. Understand?”

  Silence from the passenger’s side.

  Louder, as if ordering a new boot camp recruit, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

  “Yessir,” Gabe muttered with little enthusiasm.

  Lewis thought it was too bad that Gus had been injured, as he would have made an excellent drill sergeant. It must be something ingrained in eldest brothers.

  “What ‘bout you girls?” Gus asked, glancing into the rearview mirror, as if Lewis shared a gender with Blanca and Mandy.

  “You know I always hold my liquor,” Blanca declared haughtily.

  “Hey Blanc’,” Gus said, getting her attention.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hold this,” he said plainly, holding up a middle finger, which she returned right back at him amid laughter from the rest of the car’s occupants.

  “What ‘bout you, Man’?” Gabe asked eagerly, turning toward the backseat.

  “Sorry, Gabe, I’ve had my fill of hangovers for the week,” Mandy replied.

  Gabe informed Lewis that they had celebrated Mandy’s 20th birthday two days earlier, to which the professor offered a belated “happy birthday.” Realizing that she had probably texted him about the wristband during her birthday celebration, he wondered whether alcohol had influenced her request.

  Gus piped up, “Yeah, well what she won’t say is that it only takes one shot of tequila to get her wasted.”

  “’Not my drink, Gus,” Mandy piped up. “I’m a vodka gal.”

  “Good thing you wasn’t in the Corps. Even the BAMs gotta hold their booze.”

  “Yeah, I’ll remember that the next time I’m tempted to enlist,” Mandy cracked, causing Lewis to chuckle. Then he leaned behind Blanca and whispered, “BAM?”

  “Gus!” Mandy called, busting the professor on his lack of knowledge about jarhead lingo. “Lewis wants to know what a BAM is.”

  “Broad-Assed Marine!” the driver shouted joyfully, to which the three girls all shouted in unison, “Ooh-Rah!” All four of the roommates burst into laughter, clearly in on some private joke.

  Lewis saw Gabe shake his head. “Man, you guys’re crazy.” The professor said nothing for fear of seeming even more out of touch than he already was.

  All the way downtown the younger people continued to kid one other with various insults and commentary. At one point they started a contest to see who could come up with the best name for a punk rock band. The students’ suggestions progressed in creativity and offensiveness.

  “Bad Sushi.”

  “That would be a Japanese punk band.”

  “Ugly White House Daughters.”

  “Lynching Treehouse.”

  “Buttfuckers for Jesus.”

  “Ooh, good one!”

  “Burning Sphincters!” Mandy shouted out, much to Lewis’s dismay.

  “What’s a spinkter?” Gabe asked innocently.

&
nbsp; “Asshole!” Gus and Blanca shouted out, almost in unison.

  “Hey, I’m jus’ askin’!” the younger brother defended.

  Julie, taking pity on her seatmate, whispered, “Your sphincter is your asshole.”

  “Oh . . . No kiddin’?”

  Gus chimed in, as any big brother would, “Aw, Jules, whydya tell him? We coulda had ‘em goin’ all night!”

  “Sorry. My bad!”

  Lewis had often overheard undergraduate conversations similar to this one. Such focus on pop culture, crude language and drinking generally seemed inane to him, but listening to this group, he recognized the wit and intelligence behind even their insults. When Gabe finally forced him into the game, Lewis tried to think of something that might be offensive, yet could hold underlying significance. Harkening back to a series of tasteless jokes he recalled from adolescence, he suggested, “Uh, Dead Babies?”

  “Not bad,” Julie said. “But too plain.”

  Mandy piped up, “How about Trashcan Fetuses?”

  Shouts of approval went up as the contest continued until, just as Gus predicted, they snagged a handicapped parking spot right in the middle of the entertainment district. The pack began their journey by meeting Gabe’s bandmates in front of a club where a punk band was playing very loud, incoherent lyrics. They joked about which of their made up, tasteless names would best fit this group. “You like this?” Blanca asked Lewis, who seemed to be listening carefully, trying to decipher the lyrics.

  “It’s interesting.” Forgetting himself, he switched into scholarly mode. “I once read an article on the rhetoric of punk. It was very enlightening. The lyrics and style have much deeper political meanings than we often give them credit for.”

  Gus piped up, grabbing Lewis by the shoulder. “Really? That’s cool, Dude, but it sounds like shit to me. Come on, let’s get some real music.”

  Mandy rolled her eyes at Lewis and grabbed his other arm as they followed their leader to their next designated stop, a jazz club featuring a piano-drum-bass trio. Their route would progress to an R&B cover band, then the Toob Sucks, and finally, a heavy metal group to help them wake up just as the bars stop serving alcohol.