Love in the Time of Climate Change (30 page)

“He's a smarty!”

“He is. If one of my college kids did a project like that I'd have thought I'd died and gone to heaven.”

“He is a wonderful boy.”

“And that girl over there. The one with the methane hydrates and positive feedback loops? Jesus, she is so bright. And she's the same age as the little dweeb?”

“Both twelve. Both seventh graders.”

“You're sure?”

Samantha nodded.

“Wow. Who would've thought? The girl looks like a
high school homecoming queen, the mini-dude seems too young to be allowed on the monkey bars. It's like night and day.”

“Tell me about it,” Samantha replied. “That was me at their age.”

“Which one?” I asked. “The Monkey or the Queen?”

She drew my attention to a little girl, one wearing a teddy bear jumper with striped leggings. Another cutie and smart as a whip, but it was nothing shy of outrageous to think of her as a peer of the Homecoming Queen.

“Monkey bars,” Samantha sighed. “My goodness. I was so out of it in middle school. So undeveloped. It was not an easy age. It just wasn't. All the other girls' bodies were changing except for mine. At least that's what it seemed like to me at the time. I remember crying myself to sleep at night wondering what was wrong with me. I didn't get breasts until my senior year in high school.”

I caught my breath.

“Wow!” I exclaimed, and then, my inability to self-edit rearing its awkward head, added, “things sure turned out beautifully.”

Samantha turned and looked me straight in the eyes.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

I took a staggered step backwards, practically poking my eye out on some sort of contraption sticking out from one of the kid's projects.

“Umm, ah, well, you know, I mean, late bloomers are always the most … you know, whew, wow.”

If she had only stopped smiling at me there would have been a remote possibility of finishing my sentence in some sort of reasonably coherent way.

But she didn't. She just kept smiling. A beautiful, full–lipped, luminous smile that lit up the gym.

I was dazzled, dazed, and confused. My usual state of affairs around her.

She gave me another wink.

It was all I could do to beat a hasty retreat, mumbling something about an exhibit I had yet to visit.

God, if it wasn't like seventh grade all over again.

—

“She winked at you three times?” Jesse asked during the mandatory debriefing session following the science fair.

“Twice.”

“Once with the cute kid, but that one doesn't really count. Once when you complimented her boobs …”

“I didn't compliment her boobs!”

“You did,” Jesse said.

“I didn't.”

“Whatever. And when was the other one?”

“There was no other one!”

“I thought you said …”

“No. There was no third time! Christ, aren't two winks enough?”

“No argument here. Two winks. God. You better put the brakes on fast!”

“Brakes? What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Slow the flow, bro. Keep this up at this pace and you'll be holding hands by this time next year. Jesus, we could see a first kiss by the end of the decade!”

“Ahhhh! Why do I tell you anything?”

“You don't tell me anything,” Jesse said, putting his arms around me. “You tell me everything! That's why I love you. I can relive all of my teenage angst and awkwardness vicariously through you. And whenever I feel like a spaz around women, whenever I'm on the brink of despair, I listen to you and think, Wow! You're so much more fucked up than I am! And then, presto chango, I feel so better about myself! It's like therapy, only without the co-pay!”

“Anything to oblige,” I grumbled.

—

The next Tuesday in class, I managed to revisit that awkward adolescent faux pas and once again publicly humiliate myself.

“Here is your breast,” I announced loudly, handing back to Samantha the exam she had taken last week.

“Thanks,” she said, “but that won't be necessary. I already have two. I don't know where I'd put a third.”

Ahhhhh! Curses to Freud and all of his slips!

“Test! Test!” I cried, turning a brighter shade of red while the class laughed. “I'm handing back
tests
!”

Like I said, thirty-two going on thirteen.

T
HE
C
LIMATE
C
HANGERS
Had made up posters and blanketed the Main and East building walls with them. They had the Office of Student Life send out the following e-mail to all PVCC staff, faculty and students:

The Climate Changers put out the call on a Tuesday. By Wednesday they were inundated with verse.

I had thought that there might be a bit of an interest, a few pompous verses from some of the English majors, maybe an iambic pentameter or two from an English faculty member, but nothing approaching the avalanche they received. I was shocked at the response.

Their e-mail was absolutely flooded with entries.

“Dude!” Trevor yelled. “This is crazy! There must be a hundred of these mothers in here!”

“Poets, poets everywhere!” Hannah answered. “Who would have thought? This is awesome!”

“Are there any good ones?” I asked.

“Depends on what you call ‘good,'” Hannah answered diplomatically.

“Hey,” Trevor said. “Quantity over quality. It's the thought that counts!”

“In other words, most of them …”

“Suck!” Trevor answered. “Afraid so.”

The next meeting was devoted to picking the winners. I was not surprised when what started out as a celebration of the written word quickly turned, as was so wont to happen in Climate Changers meetings, into yet another all-out slug fest.

It never ceased to amaze me how like-minded people, good friends all of them, could squabble with such spite for so long over next to nothing.

I came in late to find the battle lines already drawn along predictable lines.

Hannah standing firm with the pragmatic and the literate, Trevor wildly flying the flag of the proletariat.

“I don't get it,” Trevor said. “Tell me one thing that is wrong with these?”

“Oh my god!” Hannah said. “Are you serious? Number one, they aren't poems. Number two, they're stupid. Number three, they suck. Do you actually need more reasons than that?”

“How can someone so smart be so wrong?” Trevor argued. “These are friggin' brilliant!”

“Read some,” I suggested.

Trevor obliged.

“
Sometimes history needs a push
.”

—Vladimir Lenin

“
Sometimes light switches need a push-off
.”

—Anonymous

“
Without a revolutionary theory there cannot be a revolutionary movement
.”

—Vladimir Lenin

“
Without a light off, there can be no darkness
.”

—Anonymous

“A
lie told often enough becomes the truth
.”

—Vladimir Lenin

“A
light turned off long enough becomes the darkness
.”

—Anonymous

I laughed.

“Trevor, no one even knows who Lenin is!” Hannah said derisively.

“What are you talking about?” Trevor replied. “He's the godfather of Communism, for Christ sake!”

“I'm not sure I would categorize him quite that way,” I offered.

The two hotheads ignored me.

“I know who he is, you moron, but your average Joe probably thinks he's John's little brother, the long lost Beatle.”

Trevor continued:

“
Let a hundred flowers bloom
.”

—Mao Zedong

“
Let a hundred switches be turned off
.”

—Anonymous

“
In waking a tiger, use a long stick
.”

—Mao Zedong

“
In turning off a light, use a finger
.”

—Anonymous

“Wait just a minute,” I said. “Who wrote these?”

“Who do you think?” Hannah replied, glaring at Trevor.

Trevor laughed and raised his fist in the air. “All power to those who turn off the power!”

“You're ‘Anonymous'!” I said, realizing I should have figured that one out after the first poem. “I thought this contest was all about getting other folks involved?”

“Do you actually think ‘other folks' would be capable of composing so-called poems like this?” Hannah said. For whatever reason, Trevor's literary works of art were working her into a frenzy. “Trevor stuffed the ballot box! No wonder we got so many entries. It's the greatest hits from his favorite dead revolutionaries. Listen to this one!”

“
A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery
.”

— Mao Zedong

“
Notice how he didn't mention turning off the light
.”

— Anonymous (a.k.a. Trevor)

“Not only is it total crap, but it doesn't even make sense!” Hannah was practically screaming.

“It does too,” Trevor replied, his voice hard to hear over my and the rest of the Climate Changers' laughter.

“It does not!”

“Oh,” Trevor countered. “So this one's a Pulitzer Prize winner?”

Roses are red

Violets are white

Please when you leave

Turn out the light

“I'd give that poem fifteen minutes tops before someone writes some smart-ass comment on it.”

“And I wonder who that smart ass will be,” Hannah said. “Hmm.… Let me guess!”

“And anyway, violets aren't even white!” Trevor yelled.

“They are too!”

“They are not!”

“Are too!”

I didn't have to ask who wrote the last poem. Hannah certainly had her dander up.

I was having a hard time understanding why such passionate speeches and emotional outbursts would come from such smart, witty college kids.
I
thought these poems were funny as hell. So did the rest of the Climate Changers. Was there something else going on under the radar here?

The night before Jesse and Sarah were having a spat and they sounded just like these two. Going at it over trivialities. Hmm …

“That poem gets posted,” Trevor said. “This one gets posted!”

Roses are crap

Violets they suck

Turn off the lights

Or we're shit out of luck

“Or better yet, how about this?”

Roses are gross

Violets are crass

Turn off the lights

Or I'll kick your ass

By this time even Trevor and Hannah were laughing.

“Why not!” Hannah said. “Just make sure this one goes next to it!”

Holding hands

They wandered into the light of the classroom

Flipping off the switch

She turned, pulled him close, and kissed him

“You know,” Trevor said, sidling up to Hannah. “That one is actually pretty cute.”

“Darn right it's cute,” she answered. “‘I want bread, but I want roses too!'”

Wait a minute. Were their bodies actually touching?

“But please,” Hannah continued, batting her eyes at Trevor. “Can we just leave this one out?”

Mountain tops

Blown sky high

Burn the coal

The earth will fry

Oceans rising

Children die

Hear the sobbing

Mothers cry

Please turn the lights off when you leave
.

Have a nice day
.

“That does not make me want to have a nice day,” Hannah said. “It just makes me want to kill myself, with the lights on!”