The fifty-minute class was indistinguishable from most others. Of the forty students enrolled in the course, eight apparently found some better use of their time that morning. Another dozen or so had not bothered to read the day’s assignment, as evidenced by their questions. Several had glanced at the readings minutes before the class began, as though the mere sight of the words could transmit ideas into their arguably impressionable minds. A couple of overachievers -- who always sat front and center -- completed the course readings and posed some thoughtful questions. One even offered a question the professor had not heard before. Steven took comfort in that query. At least someone gives a rat’s ass, he figured.
He never used profanity aloud, but his daily inner dialogue was filled with language that would make the raunchiest comedians, rappers, and porn stars blush. His colleagues, he was certain, were too busy constantly acknowledging what a nice guy he was to even consider that he ever wondered whether the dowdy department secretary liked it from behind or wished that the dean would go fuck himself.
His office hour was, per usual, an opportunity for him to become invisible after his classroom performance. Students never bothered to stop by until major project deadlines drew near. The pills were no longer an option for the day, though; such was the bargain he had made with himself. No sooner than he settled into his chair, Steven opened his email. Nothing out of the ordinary, he thought. Student X apologizes for oversleeping and missing class. Student Y offers no excuse, opting a one-sentence message instead: Did I miss anything in class today? He inhaled deeply, as his imagination overflowed with inappropriate responses, before moving to the remaining new messages. A journal editor asked him to review a manuscript. A listserv announced an upcoming conference. A student asked for a recommendation letter. Automated messages listed the latest articles published in a couple of his favorite journals. His church reminded him about the weekend food drive.
Steven was nearly lost in the myasm of messages when he was brought back to the three-dimensional world by a knock at the door. He turned to find Donna, the department secretary, leaning into the doorway just enough to reveal the sizable cleavage of her full breasts. "Faculty meeting starts in five minutes," she sang, beaming as though such a meeting could be an enjoyable event.
"Ah, thanks for the reminder. The meeting had slipped my mind. I'll be there in a sec," he promised, trying to echo her enthusiasm. On the bright side, he told himself, I can enjoy the view if I pick the right seat.
He never used profanity aloud, but his daily inner dialogue was filled with language that would make the raunchiest comedians, rappers, and porn stars blush. His colleagues, he was certain, were too busy constantly acknowledging what a nice guy he was to even consider that he ever wondered whether the dowdy department secretary liked it from behind or wished that the dean would go fuck himself.
His office hour was, per usual, an opportunity for him to become invisible after his classroom performance. Students never bothered to stop by until major project deadlines drew near. The pills were no longer an option for the day, though; such was the bargain he had made with himself. No sooner than he settled into his chair, Steven opened his email. Nothing out of the ordinary, he thought. Student X apologizes for oversleeping and missing class. Student Y offers no excuse, opting a one-sentence message instead: Did I miss anything in class today? He inhaled deeply, as his imagination overflowed with inappropriate responses, before moving to the remaining new messages. A journal editor asked him to review a manuscript. A listserv announced an upcoming conference. A student asked for a recommendation letter. Automated messages listed the latest articles published in a couple of his favorite journals. His church reminded him about the weekend food drive.
Steven was nearly lost in the myasm of messages when he was brought back to the three-dimensional world by a knock at the door. He turned to find Donna, the department secretary, leaning into the doorway just enough to reveal the sizable cleavage of her full breasts. "Faculty meeting starts in five minutes," she sang, beaming as though such a meeting could be an enjoyable event.
"Ah, thanks for the reminder. The meeting had slipped my mind. I'll be there in a sec," he promised, trying to echo her enthusiasm. On the bright side, he told himself, I can enjoy the view if I pick the right seat.
