Monday, December 1, 2003

Outside the restaurant the rain pattered doggedly on the Professor’s car, but even the most persistent rivulets were soundly rebuffed by twentieth century waterproofing. Although the Professor had extinguished the engine, he continued to sit at the wheel, absentmindedly scratching his five-o’-clock shadow.

“Have I gotten too old for this?” he wondered aloud. “No, that’s absurd.”

He caught himself in the rearview mirror and instantly shot himself a devilish grin. Too old? Please. Virility proclaimed itself loudly in each and every inch of his stubble, that much was certain. He began roughing his hair up–“My hair’s co-ed compatible,” he chortled–when inspiration struck like a teacher’s union.

“Why should I settle for one mirror when I can have two?” he asked a little too loudly. A couple of students overheard him as they walked by.

“What a f*cknut,” one of them said rather audibly, but the comment fell on deaf ears.

At that exact moment the Professor was trying to work the sideview mirror controls while simultaneously adjusting his rearview mirror. The goal was to look into both mirrors and see two fine specimens rather than one, simple as that. The controls, however, refused to cooperate.

“Frap!” he cursed, rotating his sideview mirror to previously unheard-of angles. After five long minutes had passed, he gave the buttons an unceremonious smack and contented himself with the rearview mirror.

Modern technology will never accommodate a rhetorician as articulate and stunning as myself, he thought as he gave the controls a final jab. And that was the heart of the matter: accommodation. Chez Shanghai would thankfully address this issue with its hearty share of female diners.

Up until this evening, the Professor had been dropping not-so-subtle hints to his students. His afternoon seminar, he recalled, had gone smashingly and promised nonacademic rewards aplenty. In fact, his suggestive comment was cut short only by his own antiquated notions of chivalry.

“Professor,” ventured an attractive student as she flashed him a quick smile, “I really need an ‘A’ for this paper. Do you have any advice for me?”

“I’ll give you an ‘A’ if you give me a ‘triple-C,’ mused the Professor under his breath.

“Excuse me?” said the student, a bit taken aback.

“Maybe you’ll get an ‘A’–we’ll see,” the Professor clarified. “Just pick something about the text that interests you and make a trenchant argument for it.”

“Oh,” nodded the student. “When you put it that way it sounds so easy. Thanks!”

That wasn’t the only slip-up for the day. He held a student conference only fifteen minutes before the seminar, and the meeting ended with a tearful student recounting personal tragedy after personal tragedy.

“I just can’t handle it all!” she wailed to an uncomfortable Professor.

“There, there,” he consoled. “At least you have a double-D personality.”

Shit, he thought, did I just say something wrong?

“What did you just say?” shot back the student, tears stifled and lawsuit pending.

“Not much,” replied the Professor with his quick rhetorician’s wit. “I just said, ‘I think we should talk about iconicity.'”

Two aborted attempts. There would not be a third. The Professor looked into the rearview mirror one last time, smoothed and ruffled his hair, grabbed one of Cicero’s finest works (perfect for starting conversations), and opened the car door.

The rain had stopped and the air smelled fresh and primeval. As the Professor stepped out of his car, a few raindrops seemed to sense opportunity at hand. They dashed for the interior, only to face denial in alloy and rubber.