Backseat Professor

The American Dissident
A Literary Journal of Critical Thinking
In the Samizdat Tradition of Writing against the Machine
A Forum for Examining the Dark Side of the Academic/Literary Industrial Complex

Backseat Professor
Excerpt from Backseat Professor, a 300-page autobiographical novel critical of a private upstate New York college. All material on this site is copyright©G. Tod Slone, 2006.

Part One: Ineluctable Friction
It is by the goodness of God that in our country we have those three unspeakably precious things: freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, and the prudence never to practise either of them.
—Mark Twain

MEMORANDUM

To: Henry Cromby

From: Dick Redley, Dean of Faculty

RE: College offices and their proper usage

I've heard informally that you have slept (overnight?) in your office. Is there a problem we could help you with?

The Interview

I stepped off the plane. Too bad it had landed at a small airport in upstate New York. I'd been living alone

on a houseboat for nearly nine months in the boonies in upstate Georgia, sending resumes out. Now, there I was again... in an upstate boonies.

“Henry?” asked a short wedge of a white-haired woman walking up to me.

“Yes,” I responded.

“I’m Renate Kort from the College,” she declared. “The car’s over there. Do you want to comb your hair before we get going?” I’d been losing hair for the past 20 years, a family thing, so I’d stopped using the comb and brush long ago. “I’ve got a comb if you need one. You don’t have dandruff, do you?”

“Actually, uh…”

The Classroom

“Professor Cromby, why do they use tu and vous?” asked a student. “It seems so stupid. Why don’t they

just say ‘you’ like everyone else?”

“Well, it’s uh just different, Molly,” I responded, not quite knowing what to say. “Besides, English is

more the exception than not. Most languages have more than one way of saying ‘you’.” In my 1:15 class, some of the students couldn’t grasp the simplest of concepts. Some of them cried readily or broke into hysterical fits of giggling. Nearly all of them were female and from wealthy, conservative upstate families.

"OK, allons-y,” I said, pointing and gesturing with my arm that we’d go around the class, one by one, one

letter per student. “On fait le tour. Sharon.”

“Ahh,” said Sharon.

"Bien," I said. “Susie.”

“Bay,” she said.

"Allons-y!” I encouraged. “Un peu plus vite!"

“Say,” said Marsha. But then Bonni came storming into the room late.

“Hi, I was down to see that Tonka lady, you know, at the Registrar’s,” she said. “She dicked me 60 bucks.

Can you believe that? I’m really pissed off, so please don’t call on me today.”

“Okay, Bonni, have a seat,” I said.

“Dr. Cromby, can I say something?”

"Oui, vas-y, Laura," I said attempting to keep the class a little French.

“Well, Dr. Cromby, my parents think you're cool, you know,” she said. “I told them all about you. They

wanna read all your editorials. They love anyone who wears shit-kickers.”

“Okay, Laura, thanks for the information,” I said. “Now, let’s get moving on.”

“No problem, Mon-Sir,” she said. The class laughed. Then Bonni raised her hand.

“Yes, Bonni, what do you want?” I asked.

“Oh, never mind!” she said. The class laughed again. I liked jogging, even in the winter. It got

me outside and generally alone. Just the same, I decided to drop it for a while because of my knees and feet. Besides, it necessitated more frequent shower use, and I didn’t have a shower. The college gym had one. Immediately before my 1:15 class, I usually used it.

“Bon, ” I continued. “Allez, l’alphabet. Ellen, vas-y, s’il te plait!"

“Ah, bay, say, day,” she said. A mentally retarded guy named Luke did all the dirty work around the gym.

He was always mopping and watering down, keeping the benches, seats, handlebars, water fountain and air in a constant drench of suds and Lysol. Sometimes it got me peeved, but Luke was a decent, pleasant sort of guy. Some days his would be the only smile I’d ever witness.

"Tres bien,” I said. “Jennifer, continue!"

“Uh, eff, uh, I don’t know,” she said. “This is so boring. Last year my high school French teacher, Mrs.

Day, used to teach us games. She was so good! Do you want me to teach you any, Dr. Cromby?”

“Any what?” I asked. In the beginning, classes were fine. Students seemed pleasant enough. Teaching

seemed possible. But as we progressed beyond the introductions and arranging the seats in semi-circle, it became very difficult. Many students had minimal attention spans. The topic of the moment was constantly assailed and displaced.

"Oke, Mandy, l' alphabet, s'il te plait," I said.

“Ah, bay, say, uh, uh...” she said.

“Oui, oui, c'est ça," I said.. "Continue!"

"That’s all I know,” she said. “Dr. Cromby, when are we going to see a movie again? It’s getting close to

the long weekend and we’re really tired.” I thought about what the college president had said during his address to the faculty: “We are very pleased with this year’s enrollment. Not only are we now attracting more students to Mark Twain College, but the quality of students that we attract is very high. We have eleven Valedictorians this year, and that’s five more than last year and more than ever before.”

“Why don’t you bring a cup of coffee next time, Mandy, a king-size cup,” I suggested.

“I don't drink coffee,” she said.

“Well, bring a cup of tea then,” I suggested.

“I don't drink tea either,” she said.

“Well, what about coke?” I asked.

“It’s against the college rules to bring food into the classroom, Dr. Cromby,” informed Cathy. I wondered

where the hell the Valedictorians were. I hadn’t gotten any of them. Or maybe I had. Maybe Mandy was one of them. Anything seemed possible at the college.

“Look, we’ll see a movie after you’ve learn the French alphabet, Mandy, okay?” I said.

“Oh, that’s unfair,” she complained. “It’s not easy.”

“Well, get a tutor then!” I suggested tiring of her whining. “They’re free at the college. Take advantage

of it! Anyone that’s in college should be able to learn the French alphabet.”

“It’s just so tiring, that’s all,” she said.

“Well, why don’t you try coming to class with him."

"Let's, uh, have the quiz now. We can't spend all term learning the alphabet. "

"But some of us are slow learners I"

"Yeah, Dr. Cromby. Some of us are totally lost in this class I"

"And some of us have never had French be fore I"

" I don ' t know what ' s going to happen to my grade-point average after your course I"

"Yeah and there's a few of us that are on scholarship tool,” she said. They were scared shitless for their

grades. I tried my hardest to ease their fears. I assured them that if they simply came to class the least they'd get would be a 'C' and that if they did a little work they'd probably get a 'B'. But they all wanted 'A's... for attendance.

"Take out a blank piece of paper, put away your books and write your names on top. Don't forget your

names I" I looked over at Mandy because she'd forgotten her name on the last quiz. She looked up at me.

"Don't worry Dr. Cromby, I already put my name on the paper."

"That's good, Mandy."

I uttered five French letters, each three times and very slowly. The were supposed to write down what

they heard. When I finished, Ellen finished writing her name. She said: "Now, what are we supposed to do. Dr. Cromby?"

The Interview

"That guy we interviewed last week was something else, Henry. Can I call you Henry?"

"Yeah, sure."

"He had a degree from Princeton. I don't know why he was interviewing here. But I've never seen anyone

babble as much as he did... well, maybe LeCon. I think LeCon's taking you out to dinner tonight. Well, that guy gave me such a headache, and I never get headaches I I'm a vegetarian. You know what he told me?"

"What?"

"He said he was so pleased to have been able to interview me. I didn't know what he was talking about. I

was the one who was interviewing him. He kept going on and on about how much he liked phonetics, or something like that. Felon was the only one who liked him and I'm not surprised because Felon's a fat, pompous blowhard. He'll be going with you and LeCon tonight. Anyhow, I knew I wouldn't like that guy as soon as he got off the plane..."

Containers

I was given a room on the seventh floor of Hiroshi, the tallest of the dorms, a mini-skyscraper for the

Town. The first night, I explored the eighth, which was as deserted as the seventh, and bumped into two blonds, whose initial surprise quickly turned into authority.

"SIR, WE'RE RA's!"

"Oh? What's that?"

"Residence Assistants. Don't you know what that is?"

"No, I never heard of that before."

The eighth floor was reserved for Japanese businessmen from the local Westinghouse plant, which had

recently been rebaptised Toshiba. It was a jungle of refuse: liquor bottles, beer bottles, pizza boxes and cigarette butts, all over the place. They'd moved out for a couple of weeks for Fall cleaning and had left an unopen can of beer in one of the refrigerators.

"RA's have the responsibility in the dorms to make sure everything is okay. There are rules and they have

to be followed, and the rules say that you can't carry open containers outside your room. You should know that, sir.”

"Well, I don't. I'm new around here and nobody ever told me that or anything else. Besides, the can isn't

even open."

I'd been drinking a lot at night, alone, and was quite content doing so. I'd spent many months in solitary

moored by the dock in my brother's houseboat.

"Sir, it doesn't matter. No alcohol outside your room. That's the rule I"

"Well, how do you get it into your room without having it outside first?"

My room would be cleaned periodically. The maid would change my sheets and give me fresh towels

every so often. She'd even collect my beer bottles and put them into a green, plastic bag, which she left under my desk.

"THAT'S NOT OUR PROBLEM. ALCOHOL IS NOT ALLOWED OUTSIDE YOUR ROOM AND

THAT'S THAT!"

"Okay, don't get excited. You don't want to give me a bad impression of the College, do you?"

The eighth floor was Myrna Oscarmyer's pride and enjoy. Myrna was the President's wife and the

College's unofficial interior decorator. The floor was replete with plush, purple rugs, textured purple wallpaper, framed paintings of purple pansies (the College's official flower) and purple-painted TV’s bolted on to purple panels. Purple was the College's official color.

"SIR, WHERE IS YOUR ROOM?"

"Seven thirty-two."

One of them pushed button seven. The doors closed. The three of us stared at the wall. Then the doors

opened. I stepped out and started down the purple hallway.

"GOOD-NIGHT, SIRI"

I didn't answer. They didn't like me. I wasn't shaven. I was old and wasn't wearing my suit. I didn't like

them either. They were young, pretty and pretty snotty. The next night, I heard a couple of voices whisper in the hallway by my door.

"Maybe he's dead. What do you think?"

"Shhh. I don't know, Andy, hahahaha..."

"Hahahaha... "

The Interview

“Why do you want to teach at Mark Twain College, Henry?” Renate was right. Max Felon was big. His

lower abdomen was a watermelon. He was an Alabaman and breathed heavily like a dirty-phone caller.

“Well, I'm sure it would be challenging,” I said. “Isn’t it an historical institution?” When I first saw

Felon, I knew instinctively that I wouldn't care much for him and worse yet that he wouldn't care much for me.

“Yes, it is,” he said. “I see you’ve done your homework, Henry.” But I hadn’t done my homework at all.

I just assumed that most small, mediocre colleges were historical, for one reason or another. That was the only card most of them had to play.

Phone Call

"Henry, this is Doug in Counseling and Career Services. I just wanted to tell you that one of your

students, Becky Hobart, is in love with you."

"Oh?"

"Do you know who she is?"

"Yeah, I know Becky. But I haven't noticed anything unusual. I really don't know what to say, Doug. I

mean, I certainly haven't come on to her. That'd be unprofessional, wouldn't it?"

"Yes it would, Henry."

"Well, what should I do?"

"I've been discussing the problem with her for several weeks now."

"You're kidding. Several weeks?"

I didn't mind starting the new job. It gave me something to do. It made me feel I was part of the world

once again, for better or... for worse.

"Yes, Henry, I'm quite serious. Anyhow, you don't really have to do anything. It seems to be her

problem, not yours."

"Yes, that's true, but will it become mine?"

"Well, I really don't know. I sure hope not. You keep me informed and I'll keep you informed,

okay?"

"Sure. " Plouffe was the kind of employee the College liked to have on its payroll. He was married, had

two little daughters, didn't swear, said "yes, sir" to the Dean and, most of all, didn't write articles in the student newspaper, criticizing the hand that fed him.

"You know, this thing seems to be driving her crazier by the day, Henry. I mean she doesn't seem like she

can function any longer."

"Sounds serious."

"Yes, I know. This must come as a big surprise to you, but, well, these things do happen around

here. My wife was a former student of mine, you know.”

"Oh, really?"

"Well, yes, and, uh, that's between us, okay Henry?"

"Sure, no problem."

"Anyhow, I've advised Becky to drop all activities that concern you and not to hang around after

class, nor go to your office anymore. I've also told her that if she couldn't get this thing unde control, she'd have to take an 'Incomplete' in your course."

"Good. I just can't believe that she's in love with me. I mean I really haven't noticed anything

unusual about her behavior. Are you sure it's Becky and not someone else?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I've been counseling her since the first day of classes, your classes. To tell you

the truth, I think her sexuality is quite confused. "

"Well, whatever. Just keep me posted, will you? I don't want any problems. "

The Interview

"Now, I'd like to ask you a pedagogical question, if I may, Henry. How would you teach the

imperfect tense?"

Renate had said that Felon had fallen down the stairs in his own house and that he'd been lying on

the floor for a whole day before anyone had found out he was there. She'd said it had taken four firemen to carry him out to the ambulance and that, unfortunately, it had taken him only a month to recover.

"Well, I'll have to think on that a second. Let's see. I like to teach it by comparing it with the, uh,

passe compose. I'm not even sure how you say that in English."

"The preterite, I believe."

"Yes, that's it, the preterite. Anyhow, I list the differences up on the board. I think students like

that."

Renate had said that she'd bumped into him in a restaurant one day, that he was sitting by himself,

so she'd gone up to him and asked if he minded if she sat at his table. He was reading The New York Times, said no, and kept on reading. So she sat down and picked up a section but he'd slammed his fist down on top of it and said: "I don't like anyone to read my paperi"

"Good, Henry. Now, would you speak in French for me, please."

Renate had said that when she first came to the College, he was always on her back because she

was also a language teacher. German. He taught Spanish and wanted her to be in the classroom 20 minutes before classes started, so she could pick up the garbage and wipe down the boards. Renate had said that one day she'd had enough and told him to leave her alone, and he did.

"Sure, what would you like me to say?"

"It doesn't matter."

I talked for a while and wondered if he understood anything I was saying because he didn't

respond. He just stared down at the floor at my black-leather tennis sneakers...

Teen Crush

I was sitting in my office watching thick-winged ants drop from the fluorescent lamp and ceiling.

They made little thumps as they hit the floor. Apparently their wings no longer did the job.

"Come on in, Becky. Entre."

"Oh, okay."

Becky Hobart was standing by the door squinting at my office hours. I'd watched her for a few

seconds, tugging away at her underwear.

"So, how's the French coming along, hah?"

"Oh, not bad. I study a lot."

She paced back and forth in front of my desk, with her head bowed to the ground. I told her to

relax and sit down. It was the first time I ever had an office to myself--armchairs, a couch and wall-to-wall carpeting.

"I studied chapter two until five in the morning, you know."

"Come on, are you kidding?"

"No, really I did."

"Well, that's good, Becky. So, do you need help on anything?"

"No, I think I understand everything."

"I bet you do. So, uh, what can I do?"

She took off her glasses. The lenses were very thick. She was overall a very thick coed. She

blushed and didn't say anything.

"So, what do you want to talk about, Becky?"

"Well Dr. Cromby, you know that guy I mentioned the last time I was in your office?"

"No, what guy?"

"You don't remember?"

"No, I don't. I've got a bad memory."

"Oh, come on Dr. Cromby, you must have a very good memory. I mean you're a professor and all."

"Well, just tell me."

"Remember I told you that I was having trouble doing my homework because, well, I was in

love?"

She looked right into my eyes. I thought, oh shit, here it comes. Let ' s get it over with.

"Don't you remember. Dr. Cromby?

"Not really. So ...who's the guy?"

"Well... he's you I"

She stood up and walked around the corner of my desk. I panicked. She was riddled with

freshly-picked zits. Just my luck.

"SIT DOWN, BECKY, WILL YOUI JUST RELAXI YOU'RE GETTING CRAZYI"

"I know. Dr. Cromby."

"BECKY, I'M NOT JOKINGI SIT DOWNI" She backed off and sat back down on the couch. "Listen, you have to get this idea out of your head. I'm too old. You ' re too young. "

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time for me. The last guy I dated was in his fifties."

Christ, how the hell was I going to deal with this one? "You got to be kidding. "

"No. There's a lot of couples around like that where I'm from."

"And where are you from?"

"Nichoisville."

"Where's that?"

"Twenty miles east. It's off the highway. You know. Route 88... Dr. Cromby, why can't we just try

it?"

“Because you’ve got too much nervous energy,” I said. “You need to jog, or something.”

“Well, I do jog, but it doesn’t help,” she said. I could see that all right.

“Maybe you're not jogging enough,” I suggested.

“Can’t we just try it?” she pleaded.

“Try what?” I asked.

“Going out together!” she said.

“There’s a moral issue involved here, Becky,” I said. “What do you think people would say?

I’m your professor. Don’t you see, they’d think I was taking advantage of you or that you were trying to get a higher grade.”

“Well, I don’t think so,” she said. “Besides, I already have an A in your class.”

Landlord

After Hiroshi, I rented the top floor of a house on Abbott Street, about five minutes away from the

College and five minutes away from the infamous Barno Hospital, known for its assembly-line operations and high patient death rate.

"SUCK MY BALLS I I WANT THAT KID OUT OF HERE I"

"FUCK YOU I YOU AIN'T MY FATHER! I'LL DO WHAT I WANT WHEN I WANT,

ASSHOLE I "

My rent was cheap, but Jim Blavis, the landlord, lived below me with his girifriend and teenage

daughter. He was a shouter, especially when the girifriend's son came over. The door slammed a lot. The son ran around the house a lot. Jim ran around the house a lot too, hollering and unable to catch up.

"GET YOUR GODDAMN ASS OVER HERE, NOW! I'LL BEAT YOU YOU FUCKER!"

The woman next door was also a shouter and had a cat named Chucky.

"CHARLY, CHARRRRRLY, CHARRRRLYYYYYY! COME ON, DIN DIN, HURRY UP,

COME ON, CHUCKY, CHUCKEEEEEEE! DIN DIN! OH CHUCKEEEEEEEE..."

In the morning, Jim and his woman woke up always around 4:30. First, the smell of nicotine

seeped upwards through the floor boards, then the voices ripped out the nails.

"YOU FUCKING BITCH! I WANT YOU OUT OF HERE AND I DON'T WANNA SEE

THAT GODDAMN KID AROUND HERE ANYMORE! "

"Why don't you learn to be nice, Jim? You're always hollering, you are. . . "

A month later. I'd made a decision. I got up, got dressed and walked out the side door as always.

It was the second. The front door opened soon after the side door slammed. I didn't turn around. The black-box lid flapped up like a sledge hammer on an anvil, then down as I stepped on to the

sidewalk.

"HENRY, YOU GOT THE RENT CHECK?"

I turned around. I'd almost made it to the car.

"Jim, I think I'm going to move out. This place is a hole, with the doors slamming all the time. I

can hear you get up every morning, and that daughter of yours with that loud mouth of hers..."

"GEEZ, I KNOW, BUT I GOT RID OF THAT OTHER KID I HE WAS A REFORM-

SCHOOLER, YOU KNOW I THINGS WILL BE QUIETER I DO YOU THINK YOU CAN GET IT TO

ME BY 4:30, HENRY? I HAVE TO PAY THE MORTGAGE PAYMENT TODAY AND THAT'S WHEN THE BANK CLOSES I "

"Listen, Jim, I'll have to think about it."

"WHAT DID YOU SAY, HENRY?"

I drove off and put on the radio.

The Interview

"Now, this is Mole Hall."

"Yes, it's one of the great landmarks of American education and is actually listed in the National

"No kidding," I said.

"Really!" they said.

A couple of female students were taking me on a tour of the campus. Both wore purple and gold

beanies with 'MTC' inscribed in the front. They were joyous Wizard of Oz inhabitants and had added to my growing anxiety and desire to get back to the South, which in itself was amazing.

"Look down here at these beautiful purple flowers, professor."

"Yes, they're called pansies in case you don't know. The President himself planted them just last

week."

"Yes, and he does that every year. It's one of our traditions."

The tour was longer and more detailed than I'd ever thought a campus tour could be. They

practiced their routine well and were probably getting academic credit for it.

"We know if you're hired you'll like the College very much because we've got a lot of exciting

traditions here."

"We do have so many of them, don't we. Lisa? There's Freshman Orientation and Midnight

Breakfast and, uh, don't forget Puddle Day."

"Yeah. There's also Parents' Weekend, the Nonagon Fair, Spring Weekend, the Holiday

Banquet…”

"And what about the Candlelight Ceremony and Patron Saints. It would take us all day to explain

all of them to you. Doctor, really."

"I'm sure it would. What's Patron Saints? I thought this was a non-denominational college."

"What's that mean. Lisa?"

"It means there's no religious affiliation," I said.

"Oh, well, anyhow. Patron Saints is, uh. Lisa isn't that when a professor is saint of each class?

Like the senior class has one patron saint, I think its Dr. Stentberg, and the junior class another. Isn't he Professor LeCon?"

"Yes, Mindy, and the patron saint is supposed to help you get through your college years, right

up to when you reach your baccalaureate-hood."

"What's baccalaureate-hood?" I asked. "Is it life between childhood and adulthood?"

"Oh, that's funny, professor. But it's the word we use for when you get your degree at

commencement. . . "

Wardens

"Don't you have a girl-friend, professor?"

I'd moved into the backseat of my car. It was peaceful as hell. But it got cold and my knees and

hips felt the dead pain of cramped quarters.

"Well, if you don't. I'd love to go out with you, professor."

I'd moved into my office. Besides the couch, there was light and heat. It was also very quiet at

night... except around midnight.

"Huh? What do you think?"

I didn't answer the question. Harriet was part of the night cleaning crew. She was a big woman

with tattooed arms who moved like a big white penguin. She was also a talker and thought I was cute. She looked like she would have spread her legs right there on the couch for me, but I didn't want that. I didn't like big penguin-shaped women with tattoos.

"Well, I have to go now. If you need anything, just holier. We're waxing the bathrooms tonight,

so you'll know where to find me..."

Jack Kerouac was right. He'd said the woods were full of wardens. The next day I received a

MEMORANDUM from the Dean. Someone had informed on me. It could have been anyone, even Harriet. But I didn't think it was her. She and the Dean didn't keep the same hours.