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Wrong. Faculty meetings feel like some form of psychological water torture, each inconsequential point of order boring more deeply into my skull than the last. For people who are so smart about books and history and philosophy, my colleagues do not seem to understand the whole listen and then speak thing.
Certain I’m missing absolutely nothing, I let my tired mind wander to the two high points of an otherwise draining week. Number one. I was pretty sure that Rex was blowing me off on Saturday when he took my phone number instead of giving me his, but the next evening, when I was at the grocery store, he called me. It was awkward, but I was so glad he hadn’t thrown my number out the window of his truck while laughing at how pathetic I am that I was willing to overlook that. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: Hello?
Rex: Daniel?
Me: Yeah.
Rex: Oh, hello, good, hi. This is Rex. From, um, from—
Me: I know who you are, Rex. Hi.
Rex: Right, of course. Well, I was wondering if you’re free on Saturday night?
Me (trying not to yell “yes” into the phone instantaneously): Yeah, I think so. Why?
Rex (his suave somewhat back in place): Great. I thought, if you weren’t doing anything, that maybe you’d like to come over and we could watch Gaslight. The 1940 version that your library didn’t have?
Me (trying not to yell “yes” into the phone instantaneously, again): That sounds great, sure.
Rex: Great, great. How about eight on Saturday?
Me (determined to use any word but “great”): Great! That works.
Rex: Oh, I just wanted to let you know that I put that work order in for a new lamp. I ran into Phil—ah, the guy in charge of that—at the hardware store, so I just went ahead and let him know.
Me: Wow, that’s some service. Thanks.
Rex: My pleasure. Um, okay, then. Have a good night, Daniel.
Me: Good night. Oh! Wait, um, I don’t know how to get to your house.
Rex: Of course. Do you have a pen?
Me: Can you just e-mail me directions if I give you my address?
Rex: Oh. I don’t have e-mail.
Me (impressed): Wow. Okay. Um….
Rex: Why don’t I call you on Saturday before you come and I’ll give them to you then. Okay?
Me: Yeah, sure, great.
Rex (in a ridiculously low and growly voice): Good night.
THAT’S IT. If you edit out the “okays,” “greats,” “ums,” and “ohs,” it’s really only a few sentences, but I hung up the phone and wandered through the produce section with a humiliating grin on my face. I even bought apples because it seemed like something someone who got asked on a date might do. Then, of course, I told myself that it wasn’t necessarily a date. That Rex might just be doing me a favor, since the Free Library of Philadelphia had failed me and the library here wasn’t likely to be of more help. Or that he just wanted to hang out, as friends, and share his love of classic cinema with someone.
Still, I allowed myself. If nothing else, it made Sunday not so depressing.
On Monday, as promised, there was a floor lamp in my office. It seemed to only take 25-watt bulbs, one of which flickered with an eerie irregularity that made me constantly jerk my head around to see if someone was behind me, but at least it lent the place atmosphere.
Tuesday and Wednesday were nightmares. Like a total idiot, I’d prepped the wrong readings for my classes (I blame Rex’s delectable ass in those worn blue jeans for distracting me during course planning), so I was scrambling around all day Tuesday, didn’t sleep Tuesday night, and cocked up class on Wednesday as a result, proof that I was getting old, since staying up all night never used to faze me. To add insult to injury, Peggy Lasher, a very well-meaning but extremely irritating colleague of mine, decided to be buddies with me.
Peggy is the kind of person I avoided all throughout grad school. She’s nice enough if she likes you, but she’s incapable of letting anyone be right or achieve anything unless she’s more right or has achieved something better. She’s snobby and passive-aggressive—a quality I cannot abide—and just when you think she’s leaving, she sees something in your office that reminds her of a story she simply must tell you.
She stuck her head in my door twice on Tuesday and three times on Wednesday, and when I finally told her that I really needed to concentrate she looked so offended that I found myself admitting to her that I’d done the wrong preps for class. Rather than leaving me alone, she told me a very long story about her own first year teaching here. It seemed, for a while, like it would be about a similar incident, but it quickly became clear that this wasn’t an I’ve-done-stupid-things-too story; this was an it-seems-like-I’m-commiserating-but-I’m-actually-bragging story that ended with Peggy having almost made a mistake similar to mine but catching herself in time because she pays attention to detail. I wanted to take her by her unfortunate bowl-cut and use her head to open another crack in the ceiling.
