― Margaret Atwood
Blair
Academia is the last refuge for frustrated writers. If you're like me and love Literature, teaching 19th century prose and poetry is a comfortable retreat and it pays the bills.
But who could foresee that writing would be a failing trade? But it is.
Now anyone with a laptop considers themselves an author―it's the same complaint professional reporters make about 'on-line journalists'―again, that's anyone with access to a computer and who can afford internet fees.
And people wonder why it's so hard to police the internet. Well, let me tell you. It's Alice's Restaurant where you can get anything you want and it's all free. Hard to pass up a bargain.
Okay, even the foregoing is a little too cynical for me especially so early in the morning.
I mean, I've had my caffeine fix, saw beautiful Storm Saunders and am now heading off to my morning dissertation on Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge―it'll be a lecture given to a captive audience of mainly graduate students who hang on my every word.
Yeah, in my mind only. If I were texting I'd add LOL! But i'm walking cross campus to Victoria College and am only amusing myself, mind you, smiling on the outside as I wave to my unsuspecting prey who think they're fooling me by acting friendly.
I know what they want and for graduate students a C is an F, so they do obeisance. I feel like a cult leader sharing an intimate in-story thrice a week in the mornings. I just assign grades instead of Kool Aid.
My bad.
"Too nice a fall morning to sit in a stuffy lecture hall, don't you think?"
I turn and see Blair Sommers, a student from my morning lecture, falling into step alongside me.
"Don't ask, Blair―this isn't high school. I'm not taking the class outside to enjoy the fall sunshine."
"Ooh, that's brutal! Are you always this mean so early in the morning?"
We pass under maples and shadows dapple her features with waves of darkness. She's flirtatious and disarmingly beautiful and I'm mentally holding her at arms' length, mainly because she so easily skirts my defences.
"You're right," I smile, "I'm not a morning person."
"Didn't figure you for one," she teases mischievously.
"It is a beautiful morning. Fitzgerald wrote that life starts over in the fall when the weather gets crisp."
"It does―the nights are longer too and that's the best part."
Why is that everything she says has a double meaning and a sexual overtone―or is it just me?
She goes on. "I like Hardy's novels. I mostly see myself as Tess―a child of nature."
I nod. She has that same pale nebulousness and simple beauty older men find attractive. I stop myself. I can't go there.
"Well, we're here," she smiles.
My heart stops and then I realize we're outside the lecture hall. Her dark eyes search mine and I divine she's waiting for me to be gallant and open the door for her.
I do and she giggles and flounces through. I swear I can hear Victorian hemlines swish but she's in a sweater and blue jeans yet still channeling Tess' ethereal beauty and innocence.
Yeah, this is a middle age fantasy if I still qualify for such at fifty.
The lecture goes well and spurs a lively debate and afterwards, I spend a few minutes fielding questions and then head back across Campus to meet up with a colleague, Lev Cohen, who teaches graduate Psychology.
Every Tuesday and Thursday we meet for lunch at the Hart House Dining Room.
I’ve known Lev since high school and we share many common interests although he’s more active than me and constantly encouraging me to jog and play racquetball, the latter I think mostly to humiliate me.
But it’s all good—friendly rivalry pushes me to expand my boundaries and Lev being a competitive guy enjoys it most because he gets to win.
I enter the dining hall which is unusually crowded today and spot Lev and wave to him. My attention, however, is momentarily diverted and I collide with someone standing just inside the doorway.
“I’m so sorry,” I say as I’m pressed up against the girl’s back, my nostrils filled with the fresh scent of her hair.
She turns around and gazes up at me and I realize it’s Blair Sommers.
“Well, I’m not used to being accosted while waiting in line—do I need to call a policeman, Professor Atwood?”
There’s a wicked gleam in her eye and my heart stops.
“Blair?” I ask, shocked.
”We meet again,” she laughs. It’s a barely audible snicker, more like a soft whisper.
I realize I’m holding her, having knocked her off balance and she’s in my arms. I blush and release her.
“I was waving to a friend I’m meeting for lunch,” I say lamely.
“I’m sure that happens all the time,” she giggles. “That way, you must meet lots of interesting people.”
“Again,” I say soberly, “I apologize for not watching where I was going.”
“That’s okay, Prof—buy me a coffee sometime in Hart House Grill and we’ll be even.”
“Sounds fair,” I smile.
But as I walk away I wonder why I agreed even jokingly to such a suggestion.
”Who’s the girl?” Lev asks as I join him.
“Just a student in my morning lecture.”
“You two seemed on more friendly terms than that.”
“What? ...Oh no, I just happened to bump into her and we joked abut it.”
“Maybe you thought it casual but she was definitely interested.”
“You’re kidding, right—putting me on? The girl’s half my age. I must seem ancient to her.”
“That wasn’t’ the vibe she was sending out, or the one you’re now denying.”
“Oh, c’mon Lev, let’s be serious. It was an innocent bump and we joked about it.”
“What does Lady Macbeth say—I think you protest too much?”
“Very funny, but it wasn’t Lady Macbeth but Gertrude in Hamlet and I think we should just drop this whole silly conversation.”
“So, you can confide in me Pal, what’s happening— You going through some mid-life crisis?”
“Mid-life crisis—what makes you think that—because I happened to accidentally bump into one of my female students?”
“Well, it looked like more than a bump... and then there’s the fact you’re having botox injections.”
“What—are you insane—who told you that?”
“It’s written plainly on your face—or maybe I should say, it's not written at all because your lines have been erased.”
I stare at him confused. What the hell's going on?
I can see Lev’s cynical smile fade as he realizes I'm being sincere.
“You mean to tell me you’re not having botox treatment?”
“Of course not,” I hiss indignantly.
“Then what have you been doing, Guy, sipping at the fountain of youth?”
“Stop putting me on. The joke’s gone far enough.”
His face turns solemn and he lowers his voice.
“I’m not joking, Callum. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You look like you’ve been working out and your facial lines have mostly disappeared.”
I realize he's not teasing, especially when he lowers his voice again as if talking in church.
“You don’t look fifty—hell, you don’t even look forty.”
I suddenly feel weird and shaky. Can this be happening to me?