The Poet

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

The Poet
An Experiment in Free Speech
An Indictment of Intellectuals of the Academic/Literary Industrial Complex

It is next to impossible to get dissident literature published nowadays without connections. How much literature, certainly some of it good, ends up in the oubliettes, due to the bourgeois tastes of establishment literati? The following excerpt did, however, appear in a French translation published in Moebius (Montreal, 2006). In fact, the director of Editions Lemeac (Montreal) has expressed interest in publishing The Poet in a French translation. To date, however, nothing has been agreed upon. The Poet is a 743-page, non-fiction autobiographical "novel," copyright ©G. Tod Slone, 2006, editor of The American Dissident. Please consider publishing this politically-incorrect, true-life narrative about the pedestrian struggles of an uncommon poet-professor parrhesiastes. In ancient Greek, the parrhesiastes was a truth teller who dared speak rude truth to power. Unfortunately, that tradition has all but disappeared… kind of like our democracy. Well, The Poet seeks to bring it back. The manuscript includes dissident letters, poems, real dialogue, and humoristic details.

The dissident does not operate in the realm of genuine power at all. He is not seeking power. He has no desire for office and does not gather votes. He does not attempt to charm the public, he offers nothing and promises nothing. He can offer, if anything, only his own skin—and he offers it solely because he has no other way of affirming the truth he stands for. His actions simply articulate his dignity as a citizen, regardless of the cost. You do not become a “dissident” just because you decide one day to take up this most unusual career. You are thrown into it by your personal sense of responsibility, combined with a complex set of external circumstances. You are cast out of the existing structures and placed in a position of conflict with them. It begins as an attempt to do your work well, and ends with being branded an enemy of society.

—Vàclav Havel, “The Power of the Powerless”

Quotidian Back and Forthing
             The term “dissident American” was an oxymoron in the nation’s psyche. In Mythical America, it was simply not permitted to exist. Careerism was its enemy, locking a person into a prison of repressed logic, thought and reason. Ninety-nine per cent of poets and academics preferred it to Emerson’s advice to “go upright and vital, and speak the rude truth in all ways.” Instead, the careerist poets, teachers, and college professors went sheepish and dogmatic, and spoke the dull educationist-party line in all ways.
                Supine on the naked floor, dressed in thin black and white cotton pants, I thought about that.   At age 55, I was prevented from becoming a careerist by careerists. Was I fortunate? Perhaps. Nevertheless, I’d become somewhat purposeless. Periodically throughout my life, I’d teetered on that brink of futility. Simply unable to fool myself into believing in purpose, I was too Cartesian for my own pragmatic survival. Well, I was in good physical condition and still had an angular jaw-line. Child of the sixties, I hadn’t yet given up… unlike the bulk hippie herd.

Once again, it was summertime, and I once again unemployed. The alcove was a small cluttered room. The house had two bedrooms, both upstairs. Joanie and her 16-year old occupied them. Well, sleeping on the floor was good for the back, or so they said. Several days before, Joanie and I had driven up to Barnes & Nobles to do something different. In the store, I soon became dizzied by the sea of garbage stocked on the shelves and tables, the magazines and books. Stupid white men were pushing stupid white men's books… and stupid black women, stupid black women's books. I mentioned my observations to Joanie, who seemed to agree.

—Isn’t that the truth? And the book covers look like wrapping paper, tin-foiled and dazzling!

—They're pulling the eyes right out of heads! Maybe people have begun to frame these things, rather than reading them. There's nothing but fluff in the innards, for chrissakes!
Joanie moved down another aisle as if propelled by my negativism. The next day, she was back at work and I alone. What to do? I drove to the Bedford Public Library… to do something different for once. On the shelf I noticed Michael Moore’s New York Times bestseller Stupid White Men. So, I grabbed it and walked to the check-out counter.

—Well, what we do is tell them that they don’t have to check out the book… and that we try to please everyone by stocking a wide variety of titles.

—No. We never do that… at least I don’t think so. Let me check with my colleague.

The portly librarianesque woman walked into the room behind the counter and soon emerged with the chief of acquisitions, who concurred. I brandished Stupid White Men and spoke.

—No, that’s okay… since you’re not censoring. It doesn’t really bother me. I just wanted to make a point… but would you ever purchase a book called Stupid Black Women?

—Why don’t you ask the library’s director? It’s a good question. Here’s her card.

Anyhow, the following day, it was eight in the morning and I was readying to get up to begin the new day. Joanie had been walking around already for several hours. She didn’t sleep much, she liked her coffee. I closed my eyes, then opened them again, inspecting the ceiling, the corpses of a hundred yellow jackets lying in the light fixture. I gazed up out through the back door at the trees. It was sunny. The traffic out front on Main Street was burgeoning per usual. Great trucks rumbled by frequently, shaking the shit out of the house, infiltrating wafts of exhaust. I sat up on the floor, rotated my torso into kneeling position, then stood. My knees creaked and ached. The feeder was busy with birds, little sparrows and occasional bullying blue jays. I sat down on the white wicker lounge chair with my computer. A poem had been lingering in my mind, a French composition in the works. So, I contemplated, penned, corrected, and revamped again and again.

The house was a modest two-story, single garage in wealthy, khaki-shorted Concord, where the children grew up with cash, crew cuts, brand new SUVs, and a certain eagerness to enroll in business schools. Times had indeed changed. How the herd hippies had ended up producing such incurious creatures was certainly one of America’s great mysteries. And why hadn’t I moved on like the bulk of my generational brethren? Standing at the door, looking out at the trees and gardens through the screen, I peed into an empty gallon skim-milk jug, which I kept under the desk. It was easier to do that than traipse up the stairway to the bathroom where perpetual disarray of towels, clothes, shampoos, soaps, Kleenex boxes, medicines, the kid’s dirty underwear and muscle supplements. Joanie and the kid were big-time consumers. The house was much too small for them, either of them. My days had become repeating ones, chunks of déjà vu, even the minor disputes. Joanie appeared in the kitchen to heat up an old coffee—bang, slam, bang.

—What’s all that racket? They ought to put a muffler on that damn microwave.

Joanie stepped into the alcove and put the cup next to me on the desk littered with books, papers and several flower pots. I grabbed it.

—Damn thing’s too hot! You shouldn’t microwave it so much. One thirty-five max! I bet you did 150.

—Sure, but they’re comfortable pants, perfect for the summer. Besides, what do I care? I’m unemployed.

The quotidian back and forthing, which could erupt at any time during the day or night, sporadically, sometimes viscerally, rarely if ever resulted in a conclusive outcome. It was part of the day, every day. I walked outside to compact the garbage bags out front. Joanie put them out every Wednesday morning. The kid did nothing around the house, except help keep it a sty. It cost $1.50 for one bag of garbage. Often, I could compact three of Joanie’s loosely packed bags into one and save her $3. The bags had already been picked up. I walked back inside and into the kitchen.

—You know, one of my nightmares is waking up someday to find everyone dressed in a suit and tie, women and children included.

I stepped into the alcove, where I sat back down on the wicker chaise longue, sipped the coffee, and wrote an email. Over the years, I’d become a “letter writer”—mostly literary and always rapaciously critical.

Dear Meredith McCulloch, Library Director, Bedford Free Public Library: With regards the purchase of books, what are your policies? One book title in particular at your library is offensive: STUPID WHITE MEN. Would you purchase a book with the title STUPID BLACK WOMEN? If not, then why the double standard? Why is it okay today to call white men stupid? Isn't it time to simply end the name-calling, both black and white? If not, then we find ourselves in a vicious unending circle.
On another note, can I interest you in subscribing to The American Dissident, the semiannual literary journal I publish? The local libraries, for some odd reason... with the exception of the Concord Free Public Library, do not want to support area writers and publishers. They say, they don't have the funds, yet have plenty of funds to buy books with titles like STUPID WHITE MEN.
Thank you for your attention. Best, Henry Cusantre, editor of The American Dissident

What better way to devote my life than to disturbing the complacent and sempiternally praised. I wrote another email. What the hell.

Dear Kevin Krader, Thoreau impersonator: I suppose it was you who I bumped into at the Concord Museum the other day. Anyhow, why not a little courage and step out of the impersonator mold and really “let your life be a counter friction to stop the machine,” instead of promoting it? I am an enemy of the Thoreau Society, as you probably already know. Thoreau too would have been an enemy. No doubt, he would have found you aberrant walking around disguised as him! Thoreau has been perverted into Society, bronze statue, trinkets, Shop at Walden, human animated Thoreau effigy for cash, and gorilla cops pursuing me for simply holding a sign proffering the absence of Free Speech at Walden Pond. If you're a Thoreau Society member, I suppose you won’t even give it a thought. Sincerely, Henry Cusantre, editor of The American Dissident

Again, I stepped outside to stretch out my eyeballs. I walked into the garage, packed tightly, of furniture, books, rugs, clothes, kid’s toys, golf clubs, and tools. Joanie was an accumulator. She saved empty boxes, bags, and bottles. I was the opposite, throwing away whatever I didn’t need, including books. I scooped up a cup of seeds from a five-gallon bucket and poured the feed into the feeder, stepped back into the alcove, took off my sneakers, then entered the kitchen. The kid had broken a glass the day before and hadn’t told anyone. One of the smaller pieces pierced my naked foot. I pulled it out. I was no longer covered by health insurance, so had to be extra careful. Cobra had wanted $230 a month. If I were insured, I wouldn’t be looking for work. I lived very simply. Uninsured, I stood with the other 45 million citizens like pigeons waiting for that eventful day of sickness or accident and for the vulture doctors to come in for the final kill. What was wrong with America? For a second opinion, while in Quebec City the week before on the Dufferin boardwalk late at night with Joanie prowling the bouquinerie stalls, I found and purchased volume one of De Toqueville’s De la démocracie en Amérique. Sure, that was 150 years ago, but no doubt we hadn’t changed much at all.

By profession, I was a college professor, though had held in-between jobs as long-term replacement high school teacher on Martha’s Vineyard Island and census enumerator in Lowell. Indeed, not long ago, I used to knock on doors for $14 an hour. My first week at that job had consisted of 40 hours of training. “I’m nothing more than a robot for the US Census Bureau,” the trainer had told us. “If you say that to yourself, you’ll do fine.” He had the best advice. No wonder he was the one standing in front of us and not vice versa. “Women should not wear low-cut blouses, nor short mini-skirts.”

My ex-state college colleagues, including Joanie, had been raking in a lot more than $14 an hour, but my vision had perhaps become that much wider than theirs. The cold water felt good on my forehead. I scooped up another handful from the kitchen faucet, splashed, then toweled off. That was about all I did in the mornings and sometimes I didn’t even do that. Well, I also made it a point to brush my teeth. I was still receiving that $300 dentist bill for a crown. What a racket, crowns! Every damn filling I ever had seemed to have cracked. Joanie stepped into the kitchen.

—I spoke with Jeff, and he said I should have a lawyer write up a letter saying precisely what part of the house you own.

—Why do we have to talk about that now? I’m beat. It’s early in the morning.

—It would have been nice if maybe you’d invited me to join the conversation.

—Then I was right, wasn’t I? Remember, you said, you wouldn’t give me one?
—Yes, but now I think it’s only fair that we do it.

—Experience, that’s why. I’ve been with a number of women, as you know, and I don’t have contact with one goddamn one of them.

—You’ll have to ask them. Anyhow, I was thinking of calling my new novel, Stupid Black Women. What do you think?

A week later, I wrote a second email to the director of the public library to “encourage” a response. She responded.

If you wish to see our Materials Selection Policy it is on our home page Bedford Library.net under policies.
As you are probably aware Stupid White Men has been on the bestseller list for some time. The title may be rude, but it addresses the issue that white men are in charge of everything. The same cannot be said about women of any color.
Good luck with your book. It's subject is not in our scope.
Meredith McCulloch, Library Director

Thank you for your response. Rude title? It is clearly a racist title! One of course must exit ones politically-correct orthodox cell (paradigm) to see that. Contrary to your assertion, white men are not in charge of everything. Black colleges, for example, are run by black men and women.
Why would my book proposal on local high-school corruption not be in your “scope”? Is the subject of my literary review also not in your “scope”? Please respond to these two questions. Also, is it your policy to prefer NY Times bestselling authors over local authors? Thank you for your time and intellectual input.

Where did I go wrong? The truth was I went wrong where I went right… and I went right when I began seeing what was wrong… and that provided grist. For some natural innate reason, I’d stood up, became a man and spoke rude truth to power. Corruption had been the catalyst. I’d never tried to make waves, though I’d never really tried not to make them either. The system actively fought those who fought it. Plato’s cave was the system. I preferred the sunlight. I was one of those Dantesque spirits hiding in the light, or rather hidden by it.

A man had to air himself out periodically, feel nature, and retune the strings. I walked down the driveway to check the mail. “Moderator: No incivility seen” constituted the headline of the weekly Concord Journal. One of my pet peeves was civility, which was always being evoked as an excuse to avoid debate and otherwise bury the truth. “To many participants of the special Town Meeting this week, the tone among voters was more crass than usual.” Was there hope in Concord? “Crass” usually meant rude truth, and rude truth usually meant incivility. Well, I left it at that. I hadn’t battled the town since having my essays on the lack of free speech at Walden Pond State Reservation rejected over and over by the Concord Journal. Joanie kept her subscription, despite my periodic protests to annul it. I’d spent four hours in the Concord jail for “confrontational/ irrational,” “irate and argumentative,” and “offencsive [sic] and assaultive language.” In Concord, it had become an offence to be irrational and angry, not to mention argumentative and confrontational. Interestingly, I was unable to locate the legal regulations on offensive and assaultive language. Which words were on the list? Was there even a list? Three months later Judge Sanders had thrown the case out, while the arresting officer banked an additional $250 for overtime service in the courthouse. After the decision, I wrote the judge a harsh letter. She never responded. That was nearly five years ago.

A letter from a known Quebec newspaper columnist and editor of Combat addressed me as “Monsieur le poète contestataire,” which for me was a compliment, though I doubted it was meant to be one. On the contrary, it seemed to emit a slight academic pout. Yet the crux was clearly in that epithet. Or rather the epithet was clearly the crux, for to be a poet today was to be anything but contestataire, which perhaps rendered me anything but a poet. The editor had asked me to submit some poems, which I did.

A copy of a new small-press literary journal was also in the mail. One of the co-editors, the son, as opposed to the father, had apparently seen The American Dissident listed in Poet’s Market and, for some reason, thought he and I might share hooked atoms, as the French said. However, I tended to attack instinctively, not at all concerned with making friends or propriety. I had fought alone for many years and continued to do so. I didn’t need allies to lean against, though allies would certainly have been welcome as long as not compromising my vision… and my vision was not by any means in concrete… though perhaps it was, for truth was concrete though often disguised in quicksilver and up against a variety of shams… though poorly masked in mud and drool for those who could see clearly. So, I wrote the father, semi-known, non-academic-small-presser self-deemed “outlaw poet” to thank him for the free copy… and berate him.

However, I'm not sure why you or he would think, I'd be interested, as founding editor of The American Dissident, in pushing cult of millionaire personality rock and roll stars, including the Beetles, Bob Dylan or whomever. I deplore literary journals that have no other purpose or focus than publishing junk poetry by well-known junk poets or unknown junk-poetlets. I deplore the poesy scene of tedious incestuous self-congratulations, and minor-celebrity imbecility, a veritable nadir indeed for poetry today. Regarding your son's write-up, how can you encourage such lowly backslapping? “From a son's point of view, it's great to work with your dad, but from a writing perspective, it's pretty incredible to be working with someone of his caliber and stature in the small press world.” Why not teach your son to use his writing as a goddamn truth sword to open up the American belly of ubiquitous garbage, as opposed to a means to gain friends, minor-celebrity, numerous vacuous chapbook publications, and/or entrance into the flaccid, though oft noisy, world of poesy readings?

We now have an army of functionary networking poets creating veritable heaps and reams of diversionary, vacuous verse in service of the nation’s dubious leadership. Quantity over quality—always in America! Why not teach your son to write from experience and personal involvement with a touch of RISK? Tell him to stand on the edge once in a while and be that one man against the mob, against the poesy mob, if need be, and speak the rude truth. Let him feel the fear as he writes something he knows should not be written and not be proffered in public. Let him feel that fear, then take the courageous step in RISKING, and overcoming it. Doubtfully, these words will bulls-eye. But, one never knows…

In a great whirlwind of gas, the father wrote back. We jousted a bit, but he didn’t want to get involved—he’d been a high-school English teacher for 30 years. An army of such teachers and professors , who didn’t want to get involved, occupied every nick and cranny of the educational system. He mentioned his initial reaction to my critique was a “fuck you.” I congratulated him for not taking that easy road. I ran him up against the wall though with the outlaw thing. What a great Halloween costume for a poet sheep: black cowboy hat, boots, mustache and earring. “And, you amigo, are an outlaw whether you like it or not,” he responded. Would I now have to go out and buy a colt 45, or better yet six-pack? What a crock! “At one point I suppose I had some big arguments with the world of poetry,” he wrote. Yet things have surely gotten worse and worse, more corporo-academonised suit and tied than ever before. So, why the end of the big arguments? He wanted to spend his time and energy “working the poem,” noting just the same, he was “always open to criticism and dialogue,” while deciding to terminate the latter by handing over the correspondence to his son, who wrote me an email.

Lot’s of fire and venom there. I like that. You like to stir folks up, piss people off, I like that too. You definitely hold some pretty strong viewpoints RE: the state of modern poetry, the small press world, etc. How about considering writing an essay for us? If we are indeed the enemy for which you perceive us to be, why not sneak across enemy lines and get your viewpoint out there? I would really welcome that. My personal opinion is, go for it. Rail and rant and basically just hold the small press world, the state of modern poetry, etc. under a microscope and criticize and dissect and destroy and go for it! Put yourself on the line (outside of your website and magazine of course) see where it ends up. You've got a viewpoint, you believe in it, I say put it out there and let the games begin! I think it’d be rather interesting to see this point of view expressed outside of your website and magazine and see what kind of reaction you get from it. You might even find folks who agree with you, probably to a much lesser extent than you do, but still. What do you think about this? If you think we suck or could do better here's your chance to put in your two cents and do something about it.

The cheaply produced, hodge-podge poesy magazines that had proliferated in the mass of sex, booze, and rock and roll diversionary confusion successfully effected by power… did not interest me. But, well, I would write the essay. It was not everyday that someone requested a piece from my prosy devil’s fingers. My dream, my reverie, was a hierarchy-free, loosely-knit corps of poet activists injected with the courage to speak truth to power, both local and global, and in all spheres. Let the poet be known as the one in the mob most probable to manifest the courage to “speak the rude truth” to all the little corrupt bosses and public-servant crook-cronies festering the nation. Infused with uncanny courage, the poet might indeed be looked upon by the public as a really special kind of person, as opposed to some diversionary public entertainer holding a mike at the library or on HBO or shaking hands with Bill Moyers or reading cutesy, flaccid verse on PBS for Jim Lehrer. No doubt, mine was a take on Nietzsche. But that was my dream. That had become my focus. Today, at least in America, the poet was nothing more than a scribe, a scribbler. He was no more courageous than Joe-average. To my surprise and joy, the son responded. He and his father had both taken the lit bait and bitten the hook.

I spoke to my father, the co-editor of our magazine, and have mutually agreed to retract the offer of accepting an essay by you for print in the next issue. We're also requesting that future e-mail exchanges between you and myself, and my father and you be terminated as well. Thank you for your time. Best of luck with The American Dissident.

What more could one have said? Why had everyone been shunning me? Even famous Quebec writer, Claude Jasmin, had called me an “anarcho-raté,” or loser-anarchist. Well, I sort of liked that term. That was me, anarcho-raté, battling with everyone and everything. Now, where was I?

The societal soul, distinguished by loyalty, self-esteem, conformity, team playing and herd mentality, had become the opposite of the human soul, characterized by integrity and truth-telling. Society bred and awarded members who had managed to efface their human souls, replacing them with societal ones. Perhaps it was time sociologists opened their studies to include the academic beast and its lair.

Opportunity always peaked in August because the “best” applicants had found jobs by then… and deans were less likely to verify letters of recommendation or express concern over large unexplained, dubious resume craters and short stints.

                —Sure?  I was seated in First Class.  The plane had been overbooked.  Fortunately, someone else had taken my coach seat.  
It had been five years since my last full-time job as high-school replacement teacher and seven since my last full-time position as college 
professor at Fitchburg State.  I was flying to St. Jude’s College, an all black Methodist institution in southern Virginia.

                —What would you like to drink with it?  Another Heineken?  How about wine?  We have a Merlot.

                The stewardess disappeared behind the curtains, stump, stump, stump, not wiggle, wiggle.  Out the window, 
I marveled at the salmon strip of light in the distant horizon and the myriad white puffs, appearing as if mountains and reminiscent 
of arctic glaciers.  Below, I imagined a Polar bear trotting in the snow, then a lone Arctic walker meandering aimlessly.  How nice 
it would have been to walk on a cloudscape in the solitudinous realm of whiteness and to drink a bottle of red, then freeze to death 
and meld into the universe… to go forward into it full-throttle!  That was what I imagined.

The stewardess poured. I grabbed the glass and sipped, then spoke into my recorder. My brain had become a sieve over the years.

—Get oil changed. Start a class by reciting a rude-truth poem… maybe Neruda’s “Serán Nombrados.” Mention the professor’s responsibility to encourage students to question and challenge everything, including the professor.

After landing in Richmond, I had to rent a car and drive an hour and a half down a corridor of nothingness, then checked into a Best Western motel… of nothingness. The anxiety dissipated somewhat as I lay around the room, Comfort Inn and Exxon out the window across the street. The drone of air conditioning and the patter of drizzle were comforting, rendering me quite voidal and amorphous like the air breathed in. Per diem was to be enjoyed though, as were the free coffee, clean white towels, complimentary shampoo, color TV, and hot bath. The distant machine sounds mellowing through the piping mesmerized me in the tub, coaxing me further into state of nonexistence. After drying off, I lay back down on one of the double beds and waited for the one o’clock interview. Not giving a damn about getting the job, I’d prepared nothing. Perhaps that would be viewed as a plus by interviewers, though no doubt they’d prefer the desperate candidate to the indifferent one because like donkeys the desperate were more easily led by carrots. Anesthetization could be measured. It was directly proportional to the length of time spent unemployed.

I, Hake
With regards the cosmos, what were we, if not insanity? On Saturday, making a rather large effort—it was a sacrifice of time—I drove over to the Hakes, feeling obligated because of the free week of feed and lodging. Once I’d arrived, it was next to impossible to leave. The Hakes could and did monologue for hours. I knocked on the front door. Howie opened and stepped outside.
—Cindy’s taking her medicine now. We’ll have to wait a few minutes out here, I think.

—WHAT ARE YOU TELLING HIM, HOWIE? YOU TALKING ABOUT GATORS, ARE YOU? YOU KNOW HOW I JUST HATE PEOPLE WHO FEED GATORS IN FLORIDA! THEY ALWAYS WONDER WHY THEY GET BITTEN OR KILLED. THERE WAS THIS STUPID GUY ON THE TV WITH ONE HAND AND HE WAS COMPLAINING. SOME OF THE MOST STUPID PEOPLE IN THE WORLD ARE IN FLORIDA. DON’T EVER GO DOWN THERE FOR A JOB, HENRY, BESIDES WE NEED YOU UP HERE! I WANT A LAW PASSED THAT WILL GIVE THE GOVERNMENT PERMISSION TO FEED STUPID PEOPLE TO ALLIGATORS. WHY DON’T YOU COME INSIDE, HENRY. HOWIE COULD USE SOME COMPANY.

We entered the house, walked into the living room, and sat down, sinking into the sofa. A black and white monster movie was on the tube. Howie quickly switched the channel to the golf game. Was he ashamed? Did he think I’d prefer golf to monsters? Hake was glued to her computer screen. A makeshift partition separated the living room into two parts, one for her small office space.

Howie disappeared into the kitchen. Hake stepped into the living room and embarked on a soliloquy.

—I was at the faculty senate yesterday. You know, I’m a member. Anyhow, and don’t tell anybody this—I’m probably not even supposed to tell you—, but the Dean said without mentioning your name: “This professor is a REAL professor and he treats THEM like a real professor.” This was mentioned around the event of the riot in your Spanish 101 class, which was discussed indirectly at the meeting. Then Dr. Remington quickly whispered to me: “Well who am I then? What are we? Does she think we’re not real professors?”

Professor Hake paused a second, raising her right eyeball in punctuation. Howie returned with two beers, placing one in front of me. I thanked him, grabbed the glass and sipped. Hake walked back into her office cubicle. Howie made a comment on the golf game. I sipped again. Hake came back out from behind the partition, stood in the center of living room, a giant pinball with short bleach-blond hair, and planted herself in front of us.

—I’M TALKING ABOUT THE STUDENTS! YOU ARE GOD AND THEY DON’T KNOW IT! YOU DON’T FUCK WITH THE PERSON WHO GIVES YOU THE GRADES! I’LL KILL THE LITTLE MUTHAFUCKERS! LOOK AT THIS! I’M GOING TO SHOW YOU MY SYLLABUS, HENRY! HERE! THIS IS MY CONTRACT WITH THEM! I’LL OUTWIT THOSE MUTHAFUCKERS EVERY TIME! I MAKE THEM SIGN ANOTHER FORM. LOOK AT THIS FORM! IT SAYS THEY READ THE SYLLABUS AND UNDERSTOOD EVERYTHING ON IT. YEAH, AND THEY GET SMARTER EVERY YEAR. DON’T EVER TRUST THEM!

—NOW, I GIVE THEM SPOT QUIZZES THE DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING. I’LL ASK THEM ANYTHING. WHAT DAY IS VALENTINE’S DAY? OR SOMETHING AS SIMPLE AS THAT. SO, THEY WRITE DOWN THE ANSWER ON A PIECE OF PAPER AND I COLLECT IT. NO MAKE-UPS ON THOSE QUIZZES OR MY TESTS! NEVER LET THEM TAKE MAKE-UPS! AND ALWAYS PUT THAT ON THE SYLLABUS! SO THE ONES WHO CUT CLASS GET F’S ON THE QUIZ. IF THEIR MOTHER CALLS UP—AND I NEVER TALK TO MOTHERS ANYMORE AND THE ASSOCIATE DEAN IS A WHORE WITH A BIG ASS, SO DON’T LISTEN TO HER EITHER WHEN SHE TALKS TO YOU ABOUT TALKING TO MOTHERS! SHE CAN’T SUMMON YOU! YOU’RE NOT HELD TO HER! YOU’RE HELD TO THE DEAN, NOT TO THAT FAT-ASS BITCH! AND THAT OTHER ONE WITHOUT THE NECK, WE CALL HER BLACK ANGUS! SHE HATES WHITE PEOPLE. SO FUCK HER TOO! ANYHOW, DON’T FUCK WITH THE TEACHER! THAT’S WHAT THE LAW SAYS! THE CLASSROOM IS NOT A DEMOCRACY! YOU ARE GOD IN THE CLASSROOM! YOU FUCK WITH THE TEACHER AND, WELL, YOU’LL GET FUCKED! SO FUCK THOSE LITTLE SHITS! (Professor Hake stared into my eyes, allowed for a sudden and unexpected moment of silence, then suddenly grinned devilishly. She was a loon, a goddamn loon.) WELL, I HAVE TO GO TO THE COLLEGE NOW. YOU BOYS DON’T DO ANYTHING I WOULDN’T DO, WHICH ISN’T MUCH.

Hake left the house in a whirlwind. I leaned back into the couch, more than usual. Then a laptop tumbled down from the back of the sofa and crashed into the lamp. The lamp glass shattered on the floor. Immediately, Howie became panic-stricken.

            —WHY THE GODDAMN HELL SHE PUT IT UP THERE IS BEYOND THE REASONING OF THE REASONABLE!

            —Well, it’s not really your fault, Henry.  But that’s an antique lamp.  Now we’ll have to go over to Loew’s to find a

replacement bulb before she gets back.  I hope they carry this kind.  The thing is worth millions of dollars.  It was her great,

great uncle’s.  (Howie and I bent over to pick up the shards.)  Well, at least the body didn’t break.