In case you’re wondering, gentle reader, yesterday’s post was the final nail in the coffin for a short story gone wrong from the start. One of the biggest problems was that I lost the arc of the story somewhere between conception and, oh, CHAPTER ONE. That’s okay, though. At the end of the day I think we both know this is just a blog, so you can bet that no tears have been shed on my end.
I’ll let you in on another secret: this final chapter was also an oblique way of re-introducing the great Cicero. While the Professor is mostly a caricature, some gentle readers will notice, how shall I put this, very faithfully reproduced characteristics. A salute to you, Cicero, and to your monologues–here’s hoping we’ll have the chance to debate the significant issues of the day.
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.
Before today, gentle reader, I had only a single dismal memory of Wolley Cabs. Two years ago, one of their finest didn’t know how to stay on Sheridan Road, and this little hiccup resulted in a seventy dollar cab ride. As luck would have it, I scored another Wolley Cab while waiting for transportation at the airport. I stepped into the cab only to find the most colorful character ever to wield a Ford. This fellow was short, wiry, and sported a nasty hacking cough that suggested chain smoking and then some.
My first impressions of the Wolley Mammoth were not sterling, as he tried to schlep meter-and-a-half on my normally straight meter route. After I read aloud part of Mayor Daley’s Bill of Cab Rights, we sat in silence for a good ten minutes. Clean, wholesome language, however, was clearly not a requirement in the good Bill, and thank goodness for that.
“F*ckers!” he shouted in his indeterminate South American accent, pointing at a car that zoomed by us. “These people, they think it’s a game. They goin’ 75, 80, and they’re going to get f*cking nailed. Me, I know how to drive.”
“Yeah, these people are nuts,” I muttered, not entirely sure how to respond.
“Four kids, they got killed in a crash,” he said. “What, did all of them fall asleep? Someone got f*cked, that’s for sure. F*ck.” He started hacking like a madman.
As we rounded a curve, he whispered, “Look, there they are.”
I wasn’t entirely sure who “they” included, but I played along and looked toward the horizon. I didn’t see anyone and neither did he. He was beginning to look disappointed when we flashed by two coppers who had nabbed their prey.
The Wolley Mammoth flashed me a triumphant look, and truth be told I was impressed. I decided to press him for more driving tips.
He shared another morsel as we glided over a small hill.
“You’ve got to ease the gas to 65 when you go over these hills,” he said. “Otherwise the motherf*ckers will be on you before you know it.”
I continued to press him for more rules of the road, war stories, and other tips, and he delivered them in fine fashion, spouting enough “f*cks” to line the road from here to Babylon and back. I briefly considered sharing with him the various noun forms of the F-bomb–“f*ckery,” or according to the inimitable Diotrans, “f*ckage”–when he gave me the three rules of the road.
“Look,” he leveled with me, “you just have to remember three things. First, you’ve got to swear like a motherf*cker.”
He paused here and started laughing until he was cut short by phlegm-filled hacking.
“Also remember to not get angry,” he said. “And never get out of your car. It’s not safe. You never know what the f*ck someone might–“
“Be packing?” I finished.
He nodded.
There were a few wrong turns and an uncomfortable lesson on road rage (“You people–Japanese, Chinese, all of you–are disciplined. I’ve got to give you credit. I can honk at you, curse at you, and you just don’t hear it. You got all the time in the world. Whites like me are pretty bad. And blacks are even worse.”). He lit up in the car (“Eh, you’re almost home anyway.”). On the whole, though, we got along amicably, and Rules Two and Three seem to be true.
Grand total? Forty-two dollars with tip. I dare you to tell me that’s not a fine deal. Now f*ck off, dear reader. Just kidding. Now f*ck off.