The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters with the Human Race (29 page)

1:25 A.M.:
I turned on the TV.

2:00 A.M.:
I turned off the TV.

2:10 A.M.:
I went to bed.

11:00 A.M.:
I woke up.

11:10 A.M.:
I went to the bathroom to wash off my face paint.

11:15 A.M.:
I thought a bit about humanity, and solitude.

12:00 P.M.:
I wondered if perhaps I ought to leave my apartment.

12:01 P.M.:
I decided I should, and walked over to the local coffee shop. I brought with me my “Funny Thoughts and Ideas!” journal. I also brought a bag of beef jerky, and that is because the coffee shop had recently started shellacking their sandwiches with
way
too much mayonnaise. Nowadays when I went there, I made sure to bring my own food.

1:00 P.M.:
I had started to get hungry. I was about to eat my jerky.

1:01 P.M.:
Then, though, an attractive man sat down at the table beside me.

This posed a very real problem.

I don’t know when you last ate jerky in public, but it’s an indelicate process to say the least. For starters, there’s the grasping at the base of the jerky—the jerky stabilization, if you will—then there’s the
eons
it takes to gnaw through the top. Licking whipped cream off a finger, it is not. What it is, at least for me, is the chance to resemble Prehistoric Man with Drumstick.

1:02 P.M.:
I figured I would wait to eat the jerky. Eating it now, I thought, would be counterproductive to looking attractive.

1:02 P.M.:
I tucked
The Devil Wears Prada
into my backpack, took out my “Funny Thoughts and Ideas!” journal, and started sketching stick figures of the various coffee-shop patrons and employees. My goal in doing so was to look occupied. But—and this was key
—also
available for eye contact with the handsome man beside me.

1:30 P.M.:
The handsome man beside me had still not looked my way. I, however, had given it and
given
it in the eye-contact department. I decided this meant that the handsome man had probably seen my obsessive eye contact and clocked me as psychotic. I thought, Hmm. Okay. So he’s probably made a choice to look away.

1:32 P.M.:
So then what was the point in not eating?

1:33 P.M.:
I dove aggressively into my jerky. I waged war on this one piece, bearing down with my teeth until I’d ripped it involuntarily out of my hands, which, in turn, forced my elbow into the table.

“OWWW!” I screamed.

Everyone turned.

“Sorry,” I said.

The cashier glared at me from behind the register.

“No outside food allowed,” she said. “Just, like, FYI.”

“I’m sorry for that too,” I said, and, in penance, bought a chicken sandwich with too much mayonnaise.

1:40 P.M.:
I exited the coffee shop and headed back to my apartment.

1:45 P.M.:
I offered the mayonnaise sandwich to a homeless guy I saw along the way. I made sure to do it when someone attractive walked by.

1:55 P.M.:
I arrived back at my apartment.

2:00 P.M.:
I ate some more food.

2:45 P.M.:
I turned on the TV.

7:00 P.M.:
I perused Facebook to see what other folks were up to, and by “other folks,” I mean, of course, “current girlfriends of men with whom I’d previously inter-coursed.”

7:05 P.M.:
It was the usual, natch: “Blah, blah, blah. Best job ever.” “Blah, blah, blah. Best friends ever.” “Blah, blah, blah. Best. Life. EVER.”

7:20 P.M.:
I thought about the arrogance of a superlative. I thought about how shitty we all are.

7:30 P.M.:
I received, somewhat suddenly, a message from a stranger. His name was Dan, and Dan claimed in his message to know someone who knew someone I worked with.

Dan said he’d like to take me on a date.

7:31 P.M.:
I felt flattered and delighted.

7:32 P.M.:
I perused Dan’s Facebook page.

7:50 P.M.:
I concluded he was not too psychotic, and relatively handsome.

7:55 P.M.:
I decided we should go on a date.

8:00 P.M.:
I wrote to Dan to tell him I was free.

8:05 P.M.:
Dan wrote to me to tell me this was great.

“So then what shall we do?” he wrote. “A normal date activity in a crazy location, or
crazy
date activity in a
normal
location?”

8:10 P.M.:
I flipped my mind coin. I wrote, “Crazy date activity in a normal location.”

8:15 P.M.:
“Oh! Great!” Dan wrote. “Then how’s about we meet at the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge. Could you do Tuesday? I’ll bring ski masks. We’ll wear them as we walk across.”

It was, to remind you, the first day of November. The weather was unseasonably warm.

8:20 P.M.:
“Out of curiosity,” I wrote, “can you tell me my option for a
normal
activity in a
crazy
location?”

8:21 P.M.:
“Dinner,” wrote Dan, “in my basement. I know it sounds weird, but it’s actually really romantic.”

Years ago, I read an article about how if a woman fears being attacked, she’s supposed to verbalize the crime the perpetrator is or could be attempting. For example, if you’re walking along a dark city street and you see a guy masturbating at you, you’re supposed to go, “YOU ARE MASTURBATING AT ME! STOP MASTURBATING AT ME!” You’re supposed to directly confront. Doing so is apparently effective in making you seem strong, and therefore like a less-appealing victim.

8:25 P.M.:
“Well, Dan, here’s the thing,” I wrote. “I know you’re probably just a nice guy who puts his own spin on the dating scene. Unfortunately, though, you’ve left the impression that you’re also maybe a killer. In which case, Tuesday’s out.”

8:54 P.M.:
I closed my computer.

8:56 P.M.:
I turned on the TV.

11:45 P.M.:
I turned off the TV.

11:55 P.M.:
I climbed into bed.

MONDAY, 4:00 P.M.:
I arrived to work for my Monday night shift.

4:15 P.M.:
My coworkers and I had a pre-service meeting. We were told to push a product called “fonduta.”

4:30 P.M.:
The meeting wrapped up.

4:31 P.M.:
I made a beeline for Deirdre.

“So
here’s
a thing,” I said. “Remember how on Friday we were at TGI Fridays, and I was bitching about my friend Vicki? And then when I was
done
bitching about Vicki, I made the point about how there was nothing on my
own
romantic horizon? Do you remember how I said I wanted the universe to shower me with options? Do you remember how I said ‘even someone interesting to think about would be enough’?”

Deidre nodded. She chewed a wedge off the fonduta.

“Well!” I said. “In the two days since I’ve seen you, I met a gigolo who wanted me to be his pimp! I spent time with Vicki’s boyfriend, who yammered on about her violet vadge!”

“What?” asked Deirdre.

“I know!” I said. “Then,” I continued, “I tried flirting with a drag king who was actually, really a guy. Then I met another guy in a coffee shop who wouldn’t look at
me, so I was all, like, ‘Screw it. I’m eating my jerky,’ and still another who asked me to wear a ski mask on a date!”

Deirdre was quiet for a moment. Finally, she said, “Because he thinks you’re ugly?”

And I was quiet for a moment.

“What?” I asked.

“The guy who wanted you to wear a ski mask,” she repeated. “Is it because he thinks you’re ugly?”

“Oh. No,” I said. “At least, I don’t think so. I think he’s just, like, a weird guy who tries to spin his weirdness as inventiveness. You know the type. They’re always all like, ‘Look at me! Aren’t
I
wild? Aren’t
I
so amazing?’ ”

Deirdre nodded. She smiled. She swallowed her last bit of fonduta.

“Then you’ve got to call him back,” she said. “I think you’ve found yourself a soul mate.”

My family’s history is a real slap in the face to the American Dream. That is to say, we do not do better than our fathers. We do worse. My great-grandfather was a surgeon, my grandfather, an internist, my mom, a psychotherapist. As for me, I professionally underearn. I’ll do whatever, provided I get paid a meager wage, and it was in keeping with this general approach that I tried my hand at teaching writing.

I had already worked retail and waited tables. Teaching I preferred to both previous careers because, although it sounded more prestigious than my other jobs, I could still make an insultingly low wage. And this was important. If I did not earn less than my parents, it would be an insult to their legacy.

——

I’D SEEN THE
job listing in the back of a free weekly paper. Posted by a local writing school, it called for “writers seeking extra cash.” Well,
I
was a writer insofar as I
had
written different things. I decided to apply. What I lacked in qualifying experience, I would make up for in my choice of interview outfit. The day of, I paired a lady’s blazer with a spot-on chignon and barreled in with just the right amount of razzmatazz.

The interviewer offered me the job, and yes, I did think him slow on the uptake for doing so. He hired me because, he said, my “aggressive speaking voice” would help keep the students “awake if not fully engaged.”

In advance of my class, I prepared a class plan: I’d lecture, review homework, critique homework. I preemptively practiced critiques: “The ending is shit,” or “Don’t call yourself a writer if you’re not paid to write.” I’d keep it generic, but inspiring. I’d be lauded as brilliant. I watched
Dead Poets’ Society, Dangerous Minds
, and
Stand and Deliver
. Teaching, I realized, was all in the attitude, and as long as I leaned casually against my desk at just the right angle, as long as I walked with brash confidence between my students’ desks, I’d maintain unshakable control.

The only chink in my armor was my ability to lecture. I mean, I could offer up a word or two on structure, dialogue, and so on. I could say things like, “A climax is important” or “It’s good when people talk.” But these words, wise as they are, would not a lecture make. I needed a buffer, and prepared correlating personal anecdotes for my various lecture topics. At the class in which I lectured on character, for example, I’d say, “Characters are important. They should do things. And have opinions,” at which
point a student would ask, “Could you give an example? A story from your own life, perhaps?”

“Of course,” I’d say. “Why don’t we talk about my dad? He’s a
character
. What kind of character? Well, consider what he
does
. He sobs like a woman. He sobs at novels, news stories, and sitcoms like
The Wonder Years
. When we went to see the movie
Father of the Bride
, my father’s crying got so loud, the woman behind us asked my mom to take him out.”

The students would reflect. A shining star would raise her hand.

“His sobbing shows us who he is,” she’d say.

“Exactly,” I’d say. “Write that down. Now: Who has any questions?”

It was cause for concern that I was entirely without answers, but I figured the students could do the job for me, answering one another. One could ask, “How do you create characters who are round and compelling?” and I could say, “Great question, Paul. Maybe … Chris! Why don’t you take a stab at it?” And when all was said and done, when the course had finished and it was time to say good-bye, the students would start a slow clap followed by a briskly formed receiving line. I’d stand at the door to shake their hands good-bye.

“You’re tough,” they’d say. “But fair. You’re a molder of minds. A blazer of trails.”

“Blazer of trails” would be a phrase they got from me, of course, from my lecture on Creative Use of Language.

I got to the point of feeling really excited about the whole thing, but then undermined myself when, at the first class, I made the choice to call myself “professor.”

“Hello, students. Welcome,” I said. “I am Sara, your writing professor.”

A gentleman—a homosexual, I presumed, who paired
all manner of vibrant color awfully well—shot his hand in the air.

“Do you have a doctorate?” he asked.

“I don’t,” I said.

“And is this an accredited college or university?” he asked.

“It’s not,” I said.

“Right,” he said. “What it is, I believe, is an
un
accredited school that offers private writing classes for adults. So you really shouldn’t call yourself ‘professor.’ I didn’t sign up for a writing class so I could question the judgment of the
instructor
. You see? Now there’s an appropriate word.”

This was as chummy as it got those first few weeks. The most significant problem was that my students did not embrace my personal anecdotes in quite the way I’d hoped, and this, in turn, meant we scored ourselves a whopping twenty minutes of unstructured class time. I had no idea what to do with it. In my defense, however, I will say that I was gracious enough to let the students decide for themselves.