The Professor

The Affected Professor

As college approached, Harold’s mother broached the subject, though rather tentatively. Harold could be devastatingly condescending at will. But this particular instance was a bit too important for Harold to resort to mere superciliousness. Instead, it was, to her relief, a relatively mundane conversation: “Harold? Honey? Where are you planning on applying to school?”

“Yale, Harvard and Princeton. In that order,” Harold replied firmly.

“Oh?” Despite the lack of disdain, his answer held other disappointments. “They’re a bit far, aren’t they?” she ventured.

Harold immediately donned the smile he had been practicing in front of his mirror daily for a month, a combination of assurance with a knowing, mildly patronizing overtone. “Don’t worry, Mother,” he said as he rested a hand on either of her shoulders,  “I shall keep in constant touch.”

*

Harold realized very early that his initial beginnings merely provided a point of departure as it were. A suburban Arizona domicile did not carry the distinction of, say, Marblehead, MA., but then again he was always assured that wherever his parents took him, there would be the promise of an air-conditioned environment at the end. His physique was a collection of unremarkable physical attributes that did not bode particularly well, either. He possessed hair that was oddly tufted with virulent outcroppings in certain areas paired with alarmingly thin patches in others. Throughout his junior high years, he had attempted to master his genetic code by using weight-lifting equipment he soon discovered was best left to the professionals, otherwise known as “jocks.”

Harold decided instead to embark upon a campaign of intellectual reconstruction that began with reading all of Henry James’ novels by the age of seventeen. Further, he modeled himself after both Henry James and T.S. Eliot, to wit he cultivated a speech impediment he thought approximated a well-bred British accent. He complemented this by affecting a languid gait that he was certain imparted an air of dissipated elegance.

Eventually, Harold settled upon Princeton. There he began solidifying his Oxbridge persona. As he had hoped, people took him at his word. Indeed, Harold discovered that he could re-create himself from whole cloth, so long as he possessed sufficient funds. People were surprisingly forgiving, even gullible, when they thought that a discreet whiff of money lurked behind one’s eccentricities. Fortunately, rather in the way of old, Harold’s parents gave him an “allowance” distributed each term to spend any way he saw fit. He supplemented this with a post in an upscale restaurant. At first it was merely bussing tables, but gradually he advanced as a server at lunch, then for the dinner clientele.

Harold examined his patrons closely, observed the minutest details of dress. Once he had espied a particularly elegant man sporting a suit of a beautifully subtle sheen:

“Hey,” Harold whispered to the hostess, “Hey, Marla, look at that guy over there.”

Marla glanced limpidly over her shoulder. She was, after all, only working to please her father who was also the owner of the restaurant. Because her father had insisted Marla work her way through school, Marla was equally determined to do the worst job possible. “Yeah,” she shrugged. “So?”

Harold feigned nonchalance, “What kind of suit do you think that is?”

Marla shrugged, “I don’t know. Looks like one of my Dad’s Armani’s.”

Harold hadn’t wanted to ask any further questions, but he had been compiling a list of necessary acquisitions. “Oh?” he asked casually, as if it was an afterthought.

“Looks like wool gabardine,” she looked Harold up and down, “Why? You in the market for a new suit?”

Harold scoffed, a bit too heartily. “Of course not; I wouldn’t waste my money on that. So bourgeois.”

Then, there were the gestures. He settled upon a nonchalant flick of the wrist to lend an air of careless wealth. He also began patronizing a hairstylist he had overheard one of his customers discussing at length. Added to this was some strategic shopping and Harold soon approximated a young man of not inordinate breeding.

As he advanced up the restaurant hierarchy, Harold began improving his accent, as well: a cross between a Southern and Oxbridge drawl:

“Well, hulloww, mah name is Harold,” he said languidly. “Ah will be your server today.”

“Hello to you, young, man. And where do you hail from?”

Later, after they had left, Harold was approached by Marla, the erstwhile hostess:

“Harold, what in the world did you serve those people at table 12? They practically wanted to adopt you—they even told my Dad that from now on they want to be seated in your section!”

“Really? Wow, it really worked!”

“What did? And did you see the tip they gave you? It’s almost forty percent!”

That night, Harold returned to his shared apartment with a springy step. He greeted his roommate with a hearty “Hello” and then retired to his bedroom to strategize further.

The trouble was that the speech impediment that had so impressed his restaurant patrons failed to effect Cheryl similarly. They had been studying for a midterm in the library for a few hours. Actually, Harold had been periodically studying Cheryl while Cheryl primarily doodled. Finally, Harold worked up his courage, removed his glasses and spoke in a low voice, “So, Cheryl, may ah invite you to mah abode for a nightcap?

Startled out of a daydream, Cheryl gave an annoyed, “Huh?

“Mah deah Cheryl, you look tired and perhahps you would appreciate some refreshment. At mah apahtment.”

Harold inched closer, gazing into her eyes with what he thought certain was suave sincerity. “Ahh  mean, ah’m not simply a man of pure intellect. Ah’m also sensitive to a  woman’s needs.”

“Can’t you talk like a normal person,” Cheryl asked impatiently. “You sound like you have marbles in your mouth.”

Harold quickly reverted to normal speech: “Well, I just thought maybe you’d like to come over. You know, hang out. Relax. You look like you could use it.”

“Oh, you want to hang out? Is that all?”

Harold backtracked further, “Look, I just thought, you know, we get along alright. Right?” He gave an encouraging smile. “So I thought maybe you’d like to come over and relax for a while. Have a beer, watch a movie. You know.”

Wariness crept into Cheryl’s eyes. “Uh, thanks, Harold. Actually, I am kinda tired. I think I’ll just go home—maybe some other time?” It was Cheryl’s turn to smile encouragingly. With that she had packed her books into her bag and made a quick exit.

Harold watched as the door closed with a bang. He sighed. It was all well and good that Harold had finally distanced himself from his lackluster beginnings, but it rang hollow without a woman to share it with.

Harold began casting around for other women in his Biology classes, searching for the perfect convenience crush. He was, however, consistently rebuffed by women repelled by the touch of construction in his persona. If they required an Englishman with an ambulatory impediment, well, they could go there and find one.

Clearly, Harold’s approach required some adjustment. He tried his luck again, this time with a young Taiwanese national in his Chinese Language class. One day after class, Harold had engaged Su in conversation and it had blossomed into a tutoring “date.” After, as they began to pack their bags, Harold made his move:

“Thahnk you, Su, for helping me. Ah can’t tell you how appreciative ah am.”

Su smiled in reply. It was sweet, with just a hint of coyness. “You’re welcome.”

Harold felt a surge of courage, “Su, would you like to accompany me to the movies?”

Su smiled again, but this time, more broadly. She does have the loveliest smile even if her teeth are bit uneven, Harold thought.

“Yes, Harold, I would love to.”

Harold found that Su was entranced by his rather “high” sounding accent, certain it implied an established, moneyed family—she had said as much. His walk was equally intriguing as were his gestures. They did so look like those Englishmen in the movies: elegant, somewhat effeminate, but extremely cultured.

Harold was so pleased with his success that he decided to change his major, from Biology (which, to be perfectly honest was not going so well, anyway) to Chinese—undergraduates being allowed to study an entire country as a major. He experienced exhilaration, a sense of ascendancy over those who couldn’t unlock the secret of East Asian Languages. In so doing Harold reinforced his marginalized status in society, and chose to excel at its continued production.

*

“Mum, I’ve been told by several professors that the only proper way to learn Chinese is to enroll in an immersion program. One of them thinks I could even win a scholarship to help pay for it.”

Doubt crackled through the phone. “Are you sure, Harold? You don’t know what kind of people they are.”

“Honestly, Mum, that is such a provincial attitude!”

“Well, honey, I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course! It’ll be extremely educational and it’ll look good on my resume, too.”

With this argument, and a small scholarship to help defray travel costs, Harold’s parents were persuaded. Besides, tuition at the university in Taiwan was half that of Princeton.

Convenient to this scheme was that Harold would meet many more women. He had long since broken up with Su—well, she had actually been the breaker, but still. Harold was single. He had heard that Taiwanese women were quite susceptible to American boys, no matter what their physical appearance. That made it more appealing than China, where it was reputed that the women were less impressed by the colonial charms of the “Westerner.”

As he had hoped, Harold found that dating was almost too easy, rather like shooting fish in a barrel. Thus, with a punctiliousness, Harold initially vowed not to exploit his advantage too much. But despite his conscientious avowals, Harold simply could not help himself. During the course of a fling, he discovered that his privilege as an American male increased, reinforcing the mutual assumption that she was “lucky” to have landed such an attentive, interesting young man. That he was not the most beautiful was of little concern—he had lovely manners, didn’t he? Harold agreed wholeheartedly and decided to pursue Chinese studies beyond the undergraduate level. After all, this veritable smorgasbord of female companionship could not be fully explored in only a summer or even a single year abroad. No, it required further research.

Harold eagerly applied to graduate programs to study Chinese Philosophy. If done correctly, not only would he procure an “authentic” Chinese accent, but he might also acquire a genuine Taiwanese wife as well. All while maintaining his predominance over the “average,” monolingual, American.

Harold’s parents were less sanguine about his prospects and began expressing rumblings of restlessness. Receiving a baccalaureate in East Asian Studies was well and good, but what did he plan to do with it? More importantly, were they expected to continue funding this cultural junket? In the end, it was agreed that his parents would pay for his first year of graduate school. After that, Harold would either decide he hated it and enter the job market or that he loved it, in which case he would find an appropriate means of continued support.

With this promise, Harold set off to become a master of the great colonized land, a sanitized and grateful Taiwan.