Andy Stevenson vs. The Lord of the Loins (3 page)

"Hey!” Another student alongside us waved to someone passing by. “Hail and well met!"

"Shut up!” Ryan glared at him and then turned back to us. “That's exactly the kind of shit I'm talking about. If one of them says anything even remotely close to what that idiot just did, I'm going to roll up whatever they hated and shove it right up their pompous ass! See if that suits their aesthetic pleasure."

"Hey.” Kim pulled me closer to her and slowed down so Ryan couldn't hear. “That boy is one emotionally scarred mutha—"

"Last I heard, he hadn't dated you.” I cut her off, raised my eyebrows and pulled away.

"You don't want to be like that,” Kim called after me, “because they won't find the body."

We caught up to Ryan a few moments later and joined him in the room. No sooner had we chosen seats and started to get comfortable when the place started filling up with additional puffy bodies—puffier than mine, thank you very much. As quickly as these bodies chose a seat, off came their coats, gloves, hats, scarves, earmuffs and, in some cases, leggings, to reveal much thinner, more human-looking inhabitants underneath. Now, whether or not they acted human or like prima donnas remained to be seen. Since it was only a basic creative writing class, it was unlikely that the professor would tolerate any high and mighty behavior.

"Oh, wow!” We all looked up. “You guys look like the survivors from
Silent Night, Deadly Night
. Wonder how many of you are going to make it because I hear it's a weeder course."

Aaaaand we all looked away. Freaky guy definitely stood out from the rest of the crowd and not in the best of ways. He wore a jacket with stitching resembling the blade marks from
A Nightmare On Elm Street
, a cap with a “Texas Chainsaw Rules!” patch on it and carried a backpack with “Every day should be Friday the 13th” scribbled on it in bright red marker.

I could actually respect that.

"Your white ass didn't tell me this was a weeder course.” Kim was less than thrilled. “I don't need this, it ain't in my contract and I ain't puttin’ up with it because my name is Kim."

That right there—that's what she says in moments of frustration. No matter how bad something might become, if she can avoid it or it doesn't have anything to do with her, Kim would inform us that it wasn't in her contract, she wouldn't put up with it and then her reason for it, which was usually her name. It was another highlight of her personality.

"I'm sure it's not.” I was pretty certain freaky guy heard wrong. Basically, most introductory courses, like chemistry, were designed to be a bit more difficult than usual to weed out anyone not suited for that area of study, like me with chemistry. Why anyone would plan a course like creative writing in that same vein was beyond me, though. Writing a complete sentence was a whole lot easier than learning Pavlov's Law of Relativity.

"You and freaky guy have the same taste in movies.” Kim poked me in the side. “Are you sure the two of you aren't related? This is farm country, you know."

"I will not be baited by the evil things you say about our progressive state.” I leaned over to Ryan. “Well?"

Freaky guy, whatever his name really was, took his hat off and rearranged a mop of black hair so that it wasn't hanging down in front of his face. Dark eyes probed the room for an empty seat; and his goofy, awkward smile met every face he saw along the way. I thanked God I was already sitting between two people.

"What do you think?” I persisted.

"I'll bet he reads your column every week and is one of your biggest fans."

"I hope he sits next to you.” No sooner had my words been uttered than the subject of our conversation pulled up right next to Ryan and sat down. Kim squeezed my arm and purred in delight.

"I'm Rueben.” He extended his hand to Ryan. “Aren't you the guy with the ‘No Fat Chicks’ bumperstickers on your car?"

Uh-oh. That was going to come back to haunt him, and everyone's attention was suddenly on their conversation.

"Yeah, I saw you driving in when I was on my way to class today. You were swerving all over the road."

"I was reloading.” Ryan responded through clenched teeth, and Rueben quickly retracted his hand.

"'Scuse me, honey?” Kim leaned forward, sweet-sounding as can be. Yep, he was in deep sushi. “You got what on the back of your car?” She wasn't really looking for an answer to that question. No, there was a deeper one in store for him here. “You have a problem with happy, fluffy women?” And there it was.

"No.” Ryan peered at her. “It's not a problem. It's called a standard."

"A
standard
?” She faked delight with his answer. “Ohhhh, I see. Well, did I ever tell you that a standard fluffy women like me have is to not date bitter, skinny bitches like you?"

"Did anybody ever tell you that the reason we're bitter skinny bitches is because fluffy women like you block us from getting to the food?"

"Mutha fucka!” Kim stood up. “I'm gonna rip your ears off and shove ‘em up your ass just so you can hear me kick it!"

Oh, good. Now we had people from outside the hallway poking their heads in to see what was going on.

"Sweetie?” I put my hand on her arm and spoke as soothingly as I could. “He's just trying to get the better of you, and you're letting him do it. Don't let him win. Don't be that girl.” It wasn't doing the trick. “Too many witnesses.” That did, and she sat down—very reluctantly, though.

"So.” Reuben picked up the conversation again as Kim settled down. It wasn't over, not by a long shot, but it would wait until later ... probably when Ryan least expected it. “I was thinking that a bunch of us could get together once a week or something and bounce our ideas off each other. What do you think?” Ryan didn't answer him. “When would you be available to meet?"

"Never. Is never good for you?"

"Very funny.” Reuben pulled a pen out of his backpack. “I'll call you, and we can set something up. What's your number?"

"It's listed in the phone book.” Ryan looked away.

"Okay.” Rueben seemed momentarily at a loss. “Um, what's your name?"

"That's listed in the phone book, too."

"Oh, hootchie mama!"

Ryan and I turned to see Kim gripping the sides of her chair and looking towards the door. We followed her gaze and saw the same blond kid who'd been in the commons earlier walking in with a woman who must have been the instructor. The sight of him was like a refreshing warm breeze.

"Hootchie mama?” I whispered to her. Actually, it did feel like it was getting warmer in here. I certainly felt flushed.

"It's a sista thing. You wouldn't understand.” Kim looked at the cute guy again then back at me. “Go. I don't want you sittin’ by me anymore. You annoy me."

"You just want him to sit here so you can tell him how you'll fulfill his every sexual fantasy,” I leaned in closer. “Only I don't think you own a Chihuahua."

"Honey, you need help.” She laughed despite herself and then added a “meow meow meow” to let me know things were good between us. If only she knew how much I wished
she
had moved so that he could sit next to
me
. Of course, he probably wasn't even interested in either of us, which made this the strangest bit of nonexistent competition I'd ever not been involved in.

"Okay, everyone,” the instructor addressed the class. The blond kid took a seat close to the front. “Let's get things moving along.” She set a stack of papers and a pair of headphones down on the desk.

I always wondered what professors listened to and what it might reveal about their personalities. Was she a Motley Crue or a Liberace kinda gal?

"I'm Cathleen Gevaultski, but you may call me Cathleen. I'm your docent and mahatma through the realm of Promethean writing this semester, and despite what you may or may not have heard, this is a weeder course."

Definitely Liberace. The woman, probably in her early fifties, ran her hands through an almost disturbing amount of red hair, which I suppose kept her ears warm in the winter months.

"At the end of the term, some of you will find that English isn't your best
fidus Achates
and it will behoove you to seek your professional goals elsewhere."

"Mahatma?” Kim whispered in wonder.

"Behoove?” Ryan quietly added.

"English?” I mumbled.

"Does the tall kid with the bad hair have a comment he wishes to share with the rest of the group?"

Oh, joy! She heard me. It was just like what happened with Professor Staff last year. The only thing more disturbing than her hearing me was her saying that I had bad hair. It's obvious she never took chemistry, otherwise she'd have heard of static psychotherapy. My hair looked messy because of the ski mask, not picture perfect like ... well, the blond kid.

"I was just saying what you said didn't make any sense to us...” Kim and Ryan both elbowed me ... hard. “I mean me.” Traitors! “Exactly what are we supposed to do if we suddenly discover that English isn't our ... fidgeting agitator? Learn another language and emigrate to that country?"

Cathleen appeared completely unimpressed with my observation.

"I was making an observation."

No reaction from her whatsoever.

"Okay, maybe it was just a tad sarcastic. You know, sarcasm? It's a satirical remark meant to be both witty and biting."

"Thank you for that insightful definition,” she sighed, “but I'm quite familiar with sardonicism, and I didn't find your comment to be either whimsical or rapier-like. Let's just hope you can write better than you speak. Now, if there are no more interruptions...” No one else spoke up. “...let me go through the roll. Just tell me if you're here when I call out your name. Posha."

A girl in the front responded and Cathleen frowned ever so slightly.

"Tristan."

The blond kid looked at her and smiled.

"Tayvin, Leonardo, Rueben, Aterri, Devon, Savath, Keegan, Orion, Tres, Darcy, Venise, Tyce, Conor, Abby, Winfield ... Jesus H. Christ!"

"He's in this class?” Ryan looked irritable.

"At least we know what his middle initial is,” I added.

"But what does the ‘H’ stand for?” Kim wondered.

"Harold.” Cathleen looked up at the group. “Where the hell did your parents pick out these names?” She stared back down at her sheet. In the old country, she'd have burst into flames for that kind of sacrilege. It certainly explained the color of her hair. “Andrew...” She looked around when no one answered. “Andrew? Drew, perhaps?"

"Andy?” I offered.

"Andy...” It sounded so plain flowing from her lips, and I think she emphasized it on purpose. “I thought it was a misprint. Is there anyone I missed?” Ryan and Kim raised their hands and said their names out loud. “Yes, you're both here. After the other names, I just figured the secretary was having a bit of a laugh with me. Well,” she wrote something down, “people with plain names are people, too."

"What a...” I started, completely forgetting that she had super-hearing.

"Something else you'd like to share with the class, Andy?” Expletive! “You don't have to whisper, you know, but it would show some manners on your part if you raised your hand.” She had to call me on it—it was a teacher thing.

"I'll try to remember that.” I really wanted the last word—it was a gay thing.

"You do that.” She didn't miss a beat.

"I will."

"We could do this all day, but I think the other students who paid for the class might be disappointed.” Cathleen did have a point, and I wasn't known to be a troublemaker in class. This wasn't going well.

"I was just agreeing with you that there are some unusual names in here."

"Like?” Aterri challenged me, which almost made me laugh. Hello? Aterri? Kinda proves my point.

"Uh ... let's see.” I looked down the length of the room and saw Tristan smirking. Was it still getting hotter in here or was it me? Apart from Rueben, Aterri and Abby, his was the only name I could still associate with a face. “Tristan, for instance."

"What's unusual about it?” someone asked accusingly.

"Tristan's a pinball game,” I offered. Yes, with bumpers, balls and a grand ol’ bonus if you landed said ball in the right hole. I was definitely starting to sweat.

"And Rueben is a sandwich.” Kim added, bless her soul.

"Rueben's a fruit.” Ryan put his own two cents worth in.

"These are all wonderful observations.” Cathleen addressed us. Ha! She agreed. There was hope yet. “You demonstrate perfectly just how much it is you have to learn.” Okay, maybe not. “I'd like to ask all your peers here to please make an effort to culture you in any way they feel appropriate when they see you around campus."

I felt Ryan tense up next to me and Kim's mouth dropped.

"And speaking of culture...” Cathleen's attention strayed from us. “...I've been informed that we are extremely fortunate to have a very talented young poet with us this semester. I'll be paying close attention to him, as should you, and helping him out in any way I can to see that he succeeds in his goals. As for the rest of you, I'm in a good position to help you reach your own goals provided you write in the exact way I dictate to you."

Ryan raised his hand.

"Yes?"

"I'd like to make a witty and extremely biting comment."

"No,” she dismissed him, “but thank you for raising your hand. My last comment about you writing the way I dictate was a joke.” There was silence at first, then all the asskissers filled the void with equally hollow laughter. “No, actually it wasn't.” They stopped. “Yes, it was. Now, I'd like to introduce you to our poet, and I'm told he has a piece to read that was just written this morning.” She motioned to her side. “Tristan?"

"Thank you.” Tristan stood up and walked to the center of the room while Cathleen retreated to the side and sat down next to another student—Aterri or Atari or Anasazi. “Open lips,” he began, “an intruding tongue tasting virgin territory, the smell of innocence to be had, to be turned."

Okay ... a sex poem. Was Cathleen expecting this? One look over at her face, which appeared as if she was half-shocked/surprised and half-sweating herself suggested she wasn't.

"A sound whispers through the body and becomes a moan, but my ears are muffled between a thigh and a sheet."