His for One Night (8 page)

If you’re going to successfully rescue a swimmer in distress, you should remain at a safe distance.  But I was no longer a safe distance from Hayden.  The two of us had gotten about as up close and personal as possible.

Deep down I knew I had no choice but to talk to
him.  We needed to have a frank discussion about what was going on with him and whether he saw what we had together going anywhere.  His actions indicated one thing but his words had said quite another.  I needed to know where I stood and I knew it would be wise to find out sooner rather than later, before I got any more invested in the relationship.

But I was putting it off. 

Even though I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself, I was afraid of how that conversation might play out.  I didn’t want to lose Hayden, so if that meant living in the moment with no regard for the future for just a bit longer, then so be it.

Anything was better than losing him.  Wasn’t it?

“Can I please just see it?”

Clancy Thomas, the head of the sociology department, looked down his long, pointy nose at me
with disapproval and perhaps a hint of contempt.  “You know that’s against the college’s policy, Ms. James.”

We were seated in his sprawling office, him behind his antique oak desk in a very expensive looking recliner.  I was across from him in a flimsy
, creaking plastic chair that let me know my place – as if I could forget.  With him staring me down intimidatingly, I got the message loud and clear.  He was my superior and I was his subordinate – and he expected me to act accordingly.

Power games, I decided, were
only fun when sex was involved.  The rest of the time they sucked.

This was utter nonsense
and I wasn’t getting anywhere.  But I gave it another try anyway.  I owed it to myself to do whatever I could to protect my career.  I sat up straight as though trying to make myself look taller than my petite 5’3 stature.  “If Mark Warren took issue with the way I handled my class, then I’d like specific pointers on how he thinks I can improve.” 

The reason I was challenging the matter was simple:  I knew the
criticisms Mark had written on his peer evaluation were lies.  They had to be, because there was no denying I’d done a kick ass job the day he’d sat in on my Introduction to Sociology class.  I wanted to call him out on it.  He deserved to be called out and I deserved to be vindicated.  So I stared right back at Clancy Thomas, pretending to be fearless.  He couldn’t see my knees shaking, so it was all good. 

But he still didn’t budge.

“I appreciate your concern,” he told me unconvincingly, “but I can’t help you.”

“Let me get this straight.  My career is at stake because of
accusations Mark Warren made, but you can’t share those accusations with me because it’s against some archaic institutional policy.  So basically what you’re saying is there’s nothing I can do to turn this sinking ship around.  Come on,” I said, my eyes flashing with indignation.  “I work harder than anyone else in the department.  Doesn’t that count for anything?”

It was a ballsy thing to say, but I felt I was running out of options.  I’d tried playing nice and it hadn’t gotten me far at all, so it was time to grow a backbone and stand up to the old boys’ club.  It was a stupid club anyway.

“That’s enough, Ms. James,” my supervisor snapped, standing up.  “I think we’re done here.”

“Thank you for your time,
then,” I said through gritted teeth, my fists clenched tightly at my sides.  (What was I going to do, hit him? 
That
would go over well!)  “I guess I’ll just have to take the matter up with Mr. Warren myself.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” he snarled.  Taking a menacing step closer to me, he
informed me, “You’re treading on thin ice, Ms. James.  You can forget about getting a promotion any time soon.  The college isn’t interested in offering tenure to troublemakers.  At the rate you’re going you’ll be damn lucky if your contract is even renewed.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a poker game to get to.”

I stepped aside as he pushed past me
in his haste to get out the door.  Clearly he had no time for me but all the time in the world for his poker buddy Mark.  My blood was boiling.  Nothing about the way this was being handled was fair. 

I seethed as I heard Mark and Clancy out in the hall greeting one another
with the familiarity of old friends.  They were both cutting out of work early, of course, getting an early start on the weekend.  They set a lousy example – especially Clancy, whose position implied that he was supposed to lead by example.  Sometimes it felt like I was one of the few people in the entire department who had a strong work ethic.

That saying “blinded by rage” was actually starting to make sense, because I felt so furious I couldn’t even see straight.  I didn’t want to drive home until I’d calmed down because I had a feeling that would just be a recipe for road rage.  I decided to go to the most calming place on campus I knew:  the library.

My preference, both as a student and now as a contract employee of the college, was to hole up in the very back of the library.  It was where the old and obscure books lived, and few students ventured back there.  It was quiet and serene, the perfect place to read or just have a momentary escape from the world.  It was my safe place.  So I went there, hoping I could lose myself in a book.

It didn’t work.  I picked up one of the classics, an old, worn hardcover that I’d wanted to reread for a while.  But I couldn’t concentrate on it.  The longer I sat there staring at the words on the page, the more worked up I became.  All I could do was replay the encounter with Clancy over in my mind and fume about the way Mark was screwing me over all because he was threatened by me. 

Clearly I couldn’t be alone with my thoughts.

As I left the library in a huff, I remembered a snippet of a conversation I’d had at the party Hayden had taken me to.  I hadn’t been able to concentrate on much that night given the state I’d been in, but I did vaguely recall something about an impressive art collection just off the entrance to the library.

It wasn’t all that hard to believe I’d never noticed it despite spending nearly a decade at the college in various capacities.  I was a creature of habit, frequenting the same places and not really taking the time to explore.  Besides, every time I left the library my nose was pretty much always buried in a book. 

Art wasn’t my area of expertise.  Occasionally my sociology courses had touched on it.  Years earlier I’d taken a class that had explored the connection between art and oppression in 20
th
century America.  It had been interesting and I’d enjoyed looking at photos of the artwork, but that was more because of the social messages conveyed within the pieces. 

I’d never been the type to just wander around an art gallery just for the hell of it, but now I found myself wanting to be a part of Hayden’s world.

He said he wasn’t interested in art, but he was nonetheless immersed in it on a regular basis thanks to his career.  I wanted to understand him.  I wanted to see things through his eyes.  And curiously, just from thinking about Hayden as I stepped into the room that housed the college’s art collection, I could feel my body relaxing. 

It was the end of the day on
a Friday.  As was to be expected, there was no one else around.  I was glad.  I took the opportunity to slowly walk around the quiet room with my hands clasped behind my back, savoring the stillness.  I’d pause in front of each piece that hung on the wall, reading the title and trying to imagine what the artist had been thinking when he or she had taken the brush to canvas. 

The collection was nice, though it wasn’t as expansive as I’d
envisioned.  When I came to the last painting, I wasn’t ready to leave yet.  I looked around the room and spotted a door hidden away in the corner.  I opened it, thinking maybe there were additional displays in adjoining rooms.

Instead of being greeted by
more paintings hung on walls, I found myself in the dark.  “Oops,” I muttered as I stumbled over something.  I winced when there was a small crash right at my feet, hoping I hadn’t inadvertently destroyed anything.  Feeling along the wall, I located the light switch and flipped it on.

As it turned out, I’d merely knocked over a mop that had been propped against the wall.  It seemed I was in a storage room of some sort.  I was about to leave but then something in the corner caught my eye.  Something was carefully wrapped in brown paper, but it
was torn in the corner.  I could see that beneath the paper was a painting.

Curious, I pulled back the corner so I could get a look at what was inside.  It was a beautiful
landscape of a rural countryside with stone buildings and very old looking automobiles in the background.  Wondering what era it was from, I lifted the paper back even further and searched the bottom of the canvas for a signature and hopefully, a date.

Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t make out the signature.  It was just a scribble, undiscernible.  But the date was written more neatly:  1937.  Satisfied, I carefully put the paper back the way I’d found it and let myself out of the room before I accidently knocked over anything else.  

I made a mental note to return to the small gallery another time, eager to see what other newly acquired pieces might be on display then.  Then I left the building that housed the library and gallery only with a new appreciation for art, but also with a much-needed sense of calm. 

O
nce anger was no longer consuming my thoughts, I had a brainwave.  It’s funny how that works.  Sometimes the answer to a problem just dangles right in front of you and you simply are too close to see it.  Sometimes all you have to do is step away and catch your breath…then everything suddenly becomes crystal clear. 

I didn’t know if my
idea would work, but at least it was something to try.

Purposefully
, I made my way back to the sociology department.  I felt renewed hope as I let myself in.  The hallways were dark and quiet.  Everyone had gone home.  That was good…it was perfect, actually.

Normally I wasn’t one to snoop, but the career I’d worked so hard for was on the line.  I needed to know what
lies had been told about me if I was going to have any chance of saving my ass.  So with a cautious glance out into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear, I slipped into Mark’s office.  Maybe, I reasoned, he’d saved a copy of my evaluation on his computer.

Every good instructor knows that having a secure computer password is essential.  Otherwise students could
sneak in at any time and try to get exams or, in some cases, even alter their grades.  But Mark wasn’t a good instructor.  He was a mediocre one at best.  For that I was thankful, because I found his computer already booted and password-free.

“Come on,” I muttered under my breath as I searched the f
olders and files on his hard drive.  He mostly just had a bunch of games on there.  Apparently while I was busy grading papers, doing research and prepping for class, he was playing solitaire in his office.  I wasn’t all that surprised.

Defeated, I prepared to stand up.  Then I had a brainwave – his email!  The college was encouraging us to go pap
erless at every opportunity in an effort to cut costs.  Mark most likely would have typed up his evaluation and fired off an email to the head of the department. 

Unfortunately, there
was
a password on Mark’s email.

With my tongue poking out of the corner of my mouth and a look of utter concentration on my face, I tried to guess
what the password might be.  I started out with the names of Mark’s favorite video games.  I put in the name of the fake breasted, bottle blonde movie star whose posters adorned the walls of his apartment as though he was ten years younger and still living in a college dorm room.  Then I tried his phone number, his birthday and even his name.  I thought they were all decent guesses, but nothing worked. 

I recalled a newspaper article I’d read the other morning.  Hayden had a habit of setting each section of the paper aside after he’d read it, and a caption around page 8 had caught my attention due to the sheer idiocy of it.  The article h
ad been about online scams and identity theft.  There, in bold letters, it had noted that one of the most popular email passwords is 1234567. 

I tried it.  I got an error message.

“Dammit!”

I tried 12345678, just in case Mark’s IQ was a point or two higher than I thought. 

It didn’t do the trick.

Pounding at the keyboard in frustration, I decided to try one more, utterly ridiculous possibility before I got out of there.  It was too stupid to work, I was sure, but I
nonetheless tried it anyway.  “Who in the hell would make their computer password ‘password’ anyway?” I whispered as I typed in the word.

The answer to what had been intended as a rhetorical question was:  Mark.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe it worked!”  What a moron he was.  I wondered how I’d ever found his arrogant personality, laziness and video game addiction attractive.  Yuck.

Eagerly, I clicked through Mark’s most recent emails, hoping against hope that I’d find what I was looking for.  Then I heard footsteps in the hall.  Moments later I heard a sound I’d become accustomed to:  the night janitor whistling as he prepared to mop the floors.

I couldn’t get caught in Mark’s office – not even by the janitor.  That could arouse suspicion and I didn’t need to give the department any more reason to scorn me. 

I knew I didn’t have time to read Mark’s emails.  In a few minutes the janitor would be in to vacuum the carpet and empty the wastebasket.  S
o I printed the past few weeks of Mark’s email correspondence, sending it to the printer in my own office. 

So much for going paperless…  I made a mental note to plant a tree in my backyard at some point to make up for all the paper I was about to waste.  Then I hastily returned to my office
to get what I hoped would help save my job.

When I’d embarked on my journey into academia, I hadn’t anticipated the department politics I’d encounter.  I hadn’
t realized it was a dog-eat-dog profession, particularly during these times of budget cuts and job shortages.  Those sorts of attitudes weren’t what I was used to.  I would have preferred the competition and nastiness didn’t exist, but it did.