Bimbus Extraordinarus

OMG! They replicate! I had only seen this once before, but the two who had were certainly less fascinating than these two. From the pitch of their voices down to the too-outturned angle of their feet. The color of their hair was less important than that it was styled the same way: in a side ponytail, to evoke the long-gone cheerleader days which in truth were not a part of either’s past but were certainly a persona they wished to evoke now that those days were long past.

By now, I had been fortunately divested of the personal template by virtue of tragedy. You see, I thought to myself, there are useful silver linings to all experiences. This was one. That I could now write about what appeared to be a genus classification of human: the Bimbus Extraordinarus.

The Professor, Part II

He met Lianhui in the library. She had been circling the stacks on medieval Chinese folklore as Harold circled her. She smiled and asked if he needed some help. In Mandarin. Harold answered in kind, and thus passed his first test. She marveled constantly over his grasp of Taiwanese culture while ignoring his clumpy hair and awkward gait. After all, he was American. And she discovered Harold’s values aligned neatly with her own: she wanted to marry an American, he wanted to marry a Taiwanese. She wanted to move to the States without struggling as a lonely immigrant. He wanted to avoid confronting his romantic potential with other Euro-American women. Together, they formed a bond of unified purpose rooted in mutual denials. The additional element of bilinguality added mystique to their relationship. It was indeed quite romantic that Lianhui and Harold could speak in different languages depending upon circumstances. It lent their communication an air of cultural superiority based upon relative exclusivity.

            When they returned to the States, Lianhui applied to a graduate program involving Mandarin. For, although she may have left her homeland, she still wanted to remain intellectually loyal. Nary a flaw could be found in her plan, but this was not so for Harold. He began to experience another cognitive disjunction. This time it was located in a more abstract arena which, he concluded, originated with his name. That which was bestowed upon him was unfit for a man of such a learned, dignified stature. Or at least, it would be once he had attained his doctoral degree. Besides which, his wife couldn’t quite pronounce it. It always sounded like “Harrow.”

“Honey, do you like my name?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I was thinking, perhaps I require a name that is more distinguished. More fitting of a professor?”

Lianhui thought for a moment. “But they’ll be calling you ‘Professor’ won’t they?”

“Not my colleagues. Besides, I need every edge I can muster to get tenure. You know what they say about presentation.”  This was all communicated in Mandarin. It distanced him from the anxiety surrounding his problem, manifesting as it did as a twinge in his left eye.

As he thought more on the subject, Harold decided he needed a name that conveyed a touch of class. Moreover, he wanted a one that suited the bowties he had begun sporting in the classroom as a TA: his current name undermined the mild flirting with co-eds:

“Um, Mr. Smith?” She was an exquisite creature, not earthy like his wife, but instead ethereal. Dressed in a corset blouse paired with a miniskirt, she looked quite delectable.

“No, please don’t call me that. We’re practically the same age. Ha ha ha. Call me Harold.”

And while this young thing may not have noticed his name, Harold cringed at its pronouncement. He was certain that, with a proper name, women would respond to him not simply with need, but awed desire. Yet it’s a serious matter to name oneself. One must consider one’s present condition, rather than merely resigning to the projections of one’s parents. It involves a subtle hand combined with a good measure of role-playing, which Harold secretly enjoyed.  He had already given himself a rather grand Chinese name: Gu Long, or Old Dragon. He needed an English name with similar proportions. So, Harold turned to English literature for a solution. One night, during a frenzy of page flipping through his Norton Anthology of English Literature, Volume One, his eyes set upon a possibility: Samuel Johnson.

The man was a paragon of the tortured, misunderstood, but brilliant artiste. Not unexpectedly and in the style of a great writer, he had turned his early experiences into several incisive tracts. Validation of his superiority was cemented by James  Boswell biographical work. Surely, this was a model that reflected Harold’s own, as yet unrealized brilliance.

Before leaping into this prospective name wholesale, Harold thought first about his given name. First off, there was no depth. His name projected an image of either a second-rate shoe salesman hustling wares out of a dilapidated corner shop (“Harold, we need these orthotics in size 9AA”). Alternatively it conjured himself: a gawky, be-freckled, be-spectacled young man trying to fulfill the promise of a debonair, bow-tie wearing intellectual.

            So, he tested the name in his mind. “Johnson Smith.”

            “Johnson,” he said to himself. “Johnson, good to see you, old boy! We’ve missed your presence in the club.”

“Professor Smith…”

“No, no, no, deah young lady. Please, call me ‘Johnson.’ Or even ‘J.S.’ After all, ‘Professor’ does sound so pretentious. Let us keep things informal. We are, after all, colleagues alike in this quest for knowledge, are we not?”

Harold smiled. He rather liked these imaginary conversations. Truth be told, he rather liked young women too. His success had been so limited in the States, rejection still piercing insistently from his memory. It was not until he had traveled to Taiwan that he had experienced something of what he felt was his due.

*

            “Johnson, my boy, glad to have you aboard,” was the first greeting the new Johnson Smith, Professor, heard. Admittedly the school wasn’t Ivy League, but it was ranked in the Top Twenty. Unfortunately he had had to move Lianhui and their firstborn daughter, Madison, to the outskirts of the smoky industrial town—he hadn’t been able to afford anything more. Not on his salary. But the hail-fellow-well-met atmosphere of the all-Euro-American faculty boded well for Johnson’s ambitions. Especially this older man of the nautical greeting, Professor Will Dukworth the Second. He was of the old school of East Asian Studies, the forthrightly colonial type, that is, and he validated every fear-driven sense of superiority Johnson Smith harbored. Their friendship was cemented over clandestine tipples of Scotch after class, in the privacy of Professor Dukworth the Second’s office.

            Said alliance was particularly useful because it sanctioned the cavalier, almost grandfatherly flirtations Johnson engaged in during class. For, according to Will, this was what those Orientals wanted, someone to lead the way through their own history and culture. They couldn’t do it themselves, lord only knew. They made a hash of it. But the Western Academic mind, now this was the leader of the faith. The women, especially, wanted, nay, needed this kind of guidance. Johnson found these private tirades a bit offensive, and because of this, it excused his more artless flirtations.

            Indeed Johnson resorted to classroom flirting quite frequently, satisfying his libido with the knowledge that, at last, these young, nubile women with skin that did not yet sag and voices fresh with naïve sexuality, were beholden to him. He had discussed this with a colleague, once:

            “Do you know, Ah once worried about being attracted to my female students. Ah wondered what Ah would do because it is an issue of integrity, don’t you agree?” Johnson knitted his brows for emphasis.

            Professor Lange backed slightly away from his breath, “Yes, I do. What do you think about it?”

            “Well, Ah thought about it at length and my conclusion was that it is a normal response. That over the course of one’s cahreah, one will meet students whom one finds attractive and that amongst some of them, this feeling will be reciprocated.”

            “I see.”

            “Ah’m sensing a bit of doubt, but let me explain further. It is normal to flirt at work, correct? Moreover, if my work involves adults, albeit younger adults, it would be natural to flirt with them, as well. Theah really is no harm. So long, of course, as that is the extent of it.”

            Professor Lange objected, “I’m assuming you wouldn’t flirt with any of your male students, so what about the perception of impropriety, not to mention unfairness, that would develop in the class?  And what about the inherent power imbalance? These aren’t colleagues, these are students who need your assistance and guidance. And they also need grades. If they think that flirting will help in these matters, the consequences could truly be dangerous, both for you and for the students. Whether they are men or women.”

            From that point on, Professor Lange deliberately avoided Johnson. Johnson put it down to close-mindedness, that Professor Lange could not be open to her feelings. One of which, he was certain, was a secret attraction to himself.

*

            And so it was that one day Professor Johnson Smith was laboring in class over a particularly thorny translation with one of his duller students. His TA, Lena, was feeling similarly dulled by the lecture and was nodding off discreetly in the back of the classroom when they were both interrupted by a singular occurrence: Professor Smith’s jaw dropped. Lena reflected that she had always thought such a description was strictly a literary cliché. Until now.

Class had begun fifteen minutes earlier, but Janice was constantly late. After all, she already spoke Mandarin. But as most Taiwanese who grew up in the States, she was illiterate. This class was an easy way to pad her ailing GPA. No one in the Department had banned her from it. The Euro-Americans in charge were just grateful that students were willing to take classes taught by white people like themselves.

Janice wore an outfit of gossamer silk, at least, what there was of it. To some jealous types, the skirt may have been mistaken for a wide belt, but it was found in the dress section so we must allow for the name. It was a sleeveless affair, with a scarf tied at her throat to match. A fetching ensemble which reached her toes, decked in authoritative sandals.

            Johnson swallowed and then found his voice once more. “Janice, nice to see you.”

            She nodded in reply and sat down. In the front row. She crossed her legs gracefully, pulled out her notebook from her shoulder bag, poised a pen over the page and gazed up at him.

*

            Let us draw a veil over the ensuing scene because in the end, the boy didn’t get the girl. He already had one. One who was becoming progressively more rotund with a new vegan diet. It seemed that she was hungry all the time because she was not actually eating a balanced diet. And this was not simply because Lianhui was pregnant again, for it turned out that she was only six weeks along. The weight gain had preceded this by two months.

            Johnson thus retreated often to both his office and Professor Duckworth’s, the one for the quiet, the other for the alcoholic refreshment. Home was only a two-bedroom apartment. A house was at least five years distant and with another baby in less than eight months, privacy was Johnson’s one constant solace. For he had found that these flirtations, these encounters he had anticipated with more than a little relish, often came to naught. Once they left his classroom, he left their minds.

The fact was that he was old. It is a cruel judgment wrought by eighteen-year olds towards anyone over twenty-one. None of these young women wanted an affair with him, they simply wanted better grades. And if that required more than an idle flirtation, the price was too high. Besides which, Johnson Smith was not that attractive. Oh, he had outgrown the tufted hair, it was of a uniform, if rather thin, consistency. His bowties, like the pocketwatch, were affectations he had read about in English novels, meant to signify his learned and awe-some status. True, these accoutrements were assessed by his young female students. They were thought to be intriguing clues to his character—cultured? moneyed? affected?--discussed at lunch, right before class and in between dating revelations or the latest shopping coup.

Portrait of a Whiner as a Young Man or "James Jackass Joyce"

I stared at him, disgust curling my lips, “You know, that’s why you’ve got ten thousand Pat Barkers and only one Jack Kerouac. Because after reading him, all you want to do is this,” and I stuck my finger in my mouth and pretended to barf.

“He’s just like that other idiot,” I waved my hand impatiently, “what’s his name? Not T.S. Eliot, but he’s from the 20’s, too, you know, early 20^th century. You like him, “ I said.

My husband laughed.

I bent over to examine the bookshelves near my side of the bed, “Oh, yeah. James Jackass Joyce. Portrait of a Whiner as a Young Man.”

This made my husband laugh out loud, “I like that! James Jackass Joyce. And you should really have your glasses on when you’re looking at me like that, so you can look over them.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you can tell from my mouth I’m disgusted. I mean, you never hear women who really like him because they’re all like, ‘Hey, dipwad, welcome to my life for a day as a mother and then see what you have to complain about. Tch,” I finished disgustedly. “I just can’t stand him. What a jackass.”

A Beer, A Bath, and A Book

            It began in college. I suppose it was all because I didn’t anticipate finishing. Who would have known that I would end up pursuing a Ph.D.? But since I began with the idea of quitting in mind, I felt freer. Not bound by the rules of traditional undergraduate pursuits, to wit: taking all my lower division classes first and then upper divisions during my last two years. And yes, I did only take four years to complete my undergraduate degree.

            I digress. Entering as an English Major (I loved the movie Room with a View), I thought, hey, I can take all kinds of great classes. “Novels in Film,” and “Contemporary English Classics” sounded promising. Nothing like “Introduction to English Literature, Part I, II, and III” to be taken consecutively (obviously) and with the end in mind of  completely deadening any creative impetus, much less enthusiasm for English-language novels.

            The aforesaid “Contemporary English Classics” proved especially entertaining, while “Novels in Film” was a complete dud: we kept reading things like Marguerite Duras (FYI: she’s not English) and Franz Kafka in celluloid. I think that professor was in the wrong field: Comparative Lit seemed more his speed. But the former class was a great success, not the least of which reason was because it was taught by a visiting prof from Northwestern who was the spitting image of an Oompa Loompa, circa Gene Wilder 1970’s—no  the newer one is creepy and what is it about Johnny Depp and oodles of makeup?

            She taught writers like E.M. Forster and John Fowles with introductions like, “He was a political prescient who wrote about situations which would always come to pass.” How can you go wrong with teaser like that? Which was a good thing since I would always do a tour of all the English class assigned books before I actually decided to keep a class or not. And of course, pick up a few dozen other interesting reads along the way. I mean, you may only be able to handle sixteen units per quarter (and trust me, if you’re reading a book a week per class, this really is the limit), but no one says you can’t also shop around for suggestions from all the other tantalizing titles out there. Classes like “Sex and the British Novel” with lots and lots of Jane Austen tomes (to evidently point out all the sex that wasn’t happening). And because I hadn’t heard of many of these authors, being only a tender 18, her presentation and appearance were a definite selling point.

            Then there was her frankness. We were reading The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch and she warned us of the protagonist’s solipsism and its tendency to make one want to drink. Indeed, she confessed, if not outright suggested, that the proper way for her to read Charles’ narration was after having imbibed a certain quantity of beer, after having first thrown the book across the room.

            This seemed like an excellent idea. The beer, I mean. She did warn that she was not, strictly speaking, advocating an alcoholic approach to critical reading, but on the other hand, if one was of age and many of the students were, it might not be a bad way to ease into the book.

            Well, I was entranced. Both by the book and the teacher. She was absolutely spot-on, for enthusiasm and unwitting humour all at once.

            As for the suggestion of the beer, I found I didn’t need it. Plus, I didn’t drink. I was a good girl and didn’t imbibe until I was officially of age. Well, perhaps once, but I was just shy of twenty-one.

            The lesson, however, stuck. Add to that my penchant for baths. My dream is a whirlpool bathtub. Ironically, when I moved into my current abode, it had one. Except it didn’t work. How fitting.

            Candles I find are a superfluous addition to the bath experience. So liable to fall, plop!, annoyingly into the tub and splash (this is the most annoying potential flaw) the book. All my books are in pristine condition and I do not like the idea of a series of splash marks that have marred the perfect flatness of a page. Especially if it’s a first edition, but even if it’s a paperback. They all look brand new, my books. But a beer. Not wine, no. The buzz is different, and so are the tastes. A beer, preferably some wheaty, pungent beer like Franziskaner Hefe-Weisse or some such thing. Actually, there was one when I was lodging with a local Physics prof that was made by a micro-brewery that soon went out of business. He drank my last six-pack. I forgave him because he and his wife let me use their sunken whirlpool bathtub.

            The bath is also key and it must entail some sort of bubbles. I used to enjoy Archipelago Botanicals because they made this amazing floral scent, Enfleurage, in a Bubble which lasted hours and hours. Alas, alas, it is now no longer part of their bath line.

So a good book preferably a paperback for ease of handling, a wheaty beer chilled quite cold, and a bubbly bath (I know use Lush bubble bars) makes a perfect date. With myself.

            When I drove up and down the coast preparing for my Master’s exams, I would stop off in the Central Coast. I had chosen the ideal location: right on the beach, free bubbly with the room, and a bathtub. A great little—though now quite large—barbecue and burger joint down the street. A little food and then into the tub with a glass of champers, which in a pinch is as good as a beer. And some book. Julian Barnes or Pat Barker. Steaming slowly in a scented tub, I simply cannot think of anything better.

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.

Spring Break

                                                      April: Spring Break

Sunday, March 30:       Saw Brenda today. Asked about possible excursions during Spring Break. Was told she would like to get together, Shall We Go Shopping? Rather think that my affirmative was a bit too enthusiastic as her reply was only a discreet cough. By way of explanation of enthusiasm, confess that am in dire need of socks (down to last pair without holes) and some shirts, if on sale. Realize that this sounds a tad pathetic, but, given the way Brenda dresses (convinced she buys most of her clothes at discount junior clothing shop), think she may relate.

            Then spend hour reveling in anticipated week of complete relaxation and gratuitous wastage of time. Plan specifics of this, to include shopping, eating, sleeping and petting cat.

            To demonstrate the sheer decadence of the following week to self, decide to do the laundry. Find a t-shirt am willing to make dirty, pair of shorts, don those and then sort all dirty laundry into piles: darks, lights, delicates. After three hours of trekking downstairs to move clothes from one machine to another (and enduring angry looks from one neighbor who evidently also wants to do his laundry), am at last finished. Then, lay out all clean laundry on newly-vacuumed carpet, fold clothes while watching Alice in Wonderland (the cartoon version) and finally all is folded that needs it and all that requires hanging has been properly returned to its closet.

            The one advantage to living alone is that the walk-in closet is all mine. Conveniently, have stool inside closet so that can admire all the beautifully clean hanging and folded clothes, with shoes displayed neatly below on shelves on three sides of closet (fourth is the door). Sigh with satisfaction, not the least of which is caused by knowledge that have only two things in my possession that are dirty: the t-shirt and shorts worn during this Time of Laundry. Another sigh of satisfaction and then decide that have now arrived upon the Moment for an Excursion.

            In preparation for this outing, choose an outfit that has not just emerged from last three hours of attentive care. Unfortunately, as no one is available on such short notice for a spontaneous outing, accompany self to movie. Have never snuck into second movie before, but as am on vacation and alone, decide that now is the Time to Try. Am caught and reprimanded by manager of movie theatre who is sixteen at the oldest and covered in spots.

Monday, March 31:      First official day of holiday. Phone Brenda about shopping and instead am treated to lengthy exposition regarding her cats (who are ailing) and the state of her work (also, evidently, ailing). Suggest, What about shopping, after all when the going gets tough the Tough Go Shopping. She laughs heartily, Oh, Lena, you are soo funny! Nevertheless, she simply must return to ministering both her studies and her cats. She will definitely call me on the morrow.

            Because did not have any other plans today, decide to treat myself to a “home spa” detailed in a woman’s magazine. See that masks for both hair and face are of mostly natural ingredients so mix them all together into a single all-purpose mask. Don’t have mayonnaise, but decide low-fat imitation will do. Combine with yogurt, egg, olive oil and avocadoes. Result is extremely pungent and gooey but am convinced that this is directly proportional to mask’s effectiveness. Cut cucumber to put two slices on eyes while cover face and hair for an impressive imitation of a green monster.

Set timer for half an hour but before time is up, mask begins itching. Wash face and discover that face is irritated. Wonder if this has anything to do with using low-fat, imitation mayonnaise. Wash hair three times to erase last vestiges of mask. Hair still appears limp after vigorous hair-drying. Bumps appear on face and use astringent to clear it up. Instead this makes face red in the utmost and impossible to go out for remainder of day.

            Resolve that it is time to Get Reacquainted with TV, specifically through afternoon reruns of “Gag,” “Fiends,” and “Crossing Boredom,” which results in headache. Am hungry and think that perhaps ingredients in mask would have been better suited for dinner. Instead fix buttermilk pancakes and bacon and feel much restored, in mood, if not in appearance. Snuggle up with book, glass of wine and kitty.

Tuesday, April 1:          Face has fully recovered. Am extremely anxious to embark upon exciting junket, even if this only entails visiting the local department store. Besides, am quite fond of Kmart, especially the Martha Stewart line of kitchen accessories.

Instead of calling Brenda again—don’t want to appear desperate—try to entice Debra. Treated to lengthy disquisition regarding, Isn’t it shameful how Chinese workers are exploited and underpaid to make her products, and How can you patronize a store that supports a government like that? Replied, what about the socio-economic oppression of people of color in our own country, racism in general, and our “just-us” justice system? Debra retorts, That is being intentionally obtuse and conflating issues. Wonder what issue was about, since all I want is some new spatulas, preferably of the translucent green color sold at Kmart. Decide better part of valor is to go alone. When arrive, am bumped and stepped on repeatedly by abundantly proportioned women and her several squealing children in tow. Vow to never speak to Debra again, since this is clearly Her Fault.

            Returned home extremely exhausted, though only three in the afternoon (where has the day gone?) but decide it is too shameful to simply retire at such an early hour. Resolve to have more “fun” so call another, less militant friend to see if she wants to meet at a local bar for some cheap grub.

Was informed that she was far too busy adding finishing touches on paper she is about to submit for publication. In fact, the journal is absolutely dying to get their hands on her paper, lest she entice some other, even more erudite and obscure publication with her work. Asked her how long she has been submitting the thing and was told that she just submitted it two months ago and the journal has been salivating ever since. Decided not to relay how my own paper has been hocked unsuccessfully to numerous publications for the past year.

Ask her what the subject is, and discover that it is on Sex Workers and Self-Immolation in Southeast Asia, specifically on the ramifications of being forced into sexual servitude to culturally colonializing westerners. Wonder aloud if my own paper, on Post-Modernity and Japanese Imperialism might not be “jazzed up” with a little sex thrown in. Wendy tells me she hasn’t any more time to spare, simply must finish this article by tomorrow and rings off.

            Sigh and wish once more that I had not broken up with Chris right before spring break, as then would have a standing date for every night of holiday. Instead, am left with “The Clydesdale Kitty” aka “Fusspot” for company. Not bad, though, since aforesaid fusspot has deigned to occupy my lap for an hour and a half and than meows plaintively that she is hungry. Wonder what it means to be a complete slave to a ten-pound ball of extremely puffy fur. Decide not to delve further into the issue and instead get ready for bed early.

Wednesday, April 2:     Was woken up at six-thirty in the morning by screeching which turned out to be smoke alarm. Evidently, one cannot neglect the batteries for too long (two years, to be specific) because, it seems, this is exactly what happens. After a half an hour of frantically trying to dismantle alarm into ever smaller parts, blaring finally ceases. Immediately receive a phone call from irate neighbor complaining about the noise. Apologize profusely, of no avail, and then sternly inform neighbor that if I am unable to tend further to said device at this moment, alarm will again begin bellowing. With a harrumph, neighbor hangs up and I successfully disembowel entire alarm and discover the location of the battery. Query: Why is the battery always buried under ever more intricate pieces of plastic?

Am then scolded by hungry kitty and in moment of frustration, “Fusspot” comes out “Fussus” which, upon reflection, is much more appropriate name. She now ignores appellation (and me, consequently) when called. Fortunately, since she is smaller than a houseplant, she cannot always exercise free will. After being squeezed, she runs off and hides on top of bookcase.

             Decide then to phone Brenda at 10:30 to ask about shopping excursion, as have not heard a peep from her in three days. No answer. Leave message.

            In desperation, visit the old grouch and he asks again, Why are you getting another degree? Explain once more that am not getting “another” degree, that master’s is acquired along the way to Ph.D. By way of answer, he snuffles. 

I ask, So how have you been? Alright?

He nods and then asks if I am hungry.

Nod vigorously, to which he raises his eyebrow. Make mistake of elaborating that, as yet, have not eaten breakfast. Upon which he delivers lecture on not missing meals—breakfast is the most important!

After that, he asks, Well, so you want to go to lunch?

Tell him that No, I do not want to go to lunch now because have lost my appetite. Suddenly grouch becomes solicitous and so I resort to a lie and say I need to go to school. I thought this was Spring Break, he says, but I tell him I still have some things to take care of.

            Because actually was hungry, decide to treat myself to lunch, replete with a glass of wine. Wonder if boredom is first step towards becoming a lush and decide that I Don’t Care.

Am accosted by a balding, rotund little man from neighboring table of similarly constructed colleagues. He tests the limits of suavity by inquiring whether I am alone in a bantering tone. Say quickly that no, I am not alone, am merely expecting a friend who is going to be late. Just then, food arrives, making it abundantly clear that it is a meal for one. I smile and say, well, she’s going to be really late. Then feel compelled to inhale my food before he summons courage for another visit.

            Walk out with a sensation of being an vigorously stuffed turkey. Cell phone rings and first thing Mon asks is, What’s wrong, you sound tired and Why didn’t you wait for me to come back. Explain first that Dad didn’t mention when you would be back and then about smoke alarm and she says, I knew those electrical appliances were dangerous. Try to explain the smoke alarm is not an electrical “appliance” like a microwave, but she is firm. You really sound tired, she says again, perhaps you need more rest. I agree that, perhaps, I do need more rest. Drive home and immediately cover my head with blankets.

            Saturday, April 5:         Was violently sick last two days after going to friend’s for barbecue. Wasn’t able to sleep until 6:30 the following morning because any movement of the supine variety resulted in re-experiencing dinner. Don’t know why it’s called a “twenty-four hour” illness since it lasted distinctly longer—forty-eight hours, to be exact.

            Receive phone call from Brenda, she says, Sorry, she meant to call earlier.

Before she again launches into copious details about her life, feel compelled to explain own circumstances regarding loss of prior two days, so can we go shopping? She apologizes again and says she already has gone shopping.

But, I protest, you can go again, can’t you? After all, I think, but do not add, she looks as if she shops at a discount junior clothing chain.

She says no, she can’t, she has already spent her allotment for the month.

What did you buy, I wonder.

She says, well, a shirt and a pair of pants.

My thought regarding Brenda’s particularly thrifty lifestyle is confirmed until she adds, the shirt was four-hundred and fifty dollars and the pants were five hundred. I make a choking sound and she asks whether I am still sick, should she call back later.

I say no, am fine, what does she mean she spent almost a thousand dollars on a shirt and a single pair of pants?

She says that she went to Barney’s and there was a Prada top, it’s a yellow ballet top edged with plastic thread. You have to come over and see it. And then maybe we can go out to eat. Besides, I need to have the pants altered—you sew, right?

I say yes, what does she want sewn?

The pants are too long and I don’t want to take them to the tailor. They charge fifteen dollars for hemming! So when you come over you can take them back with you, right?

            Am silent for a moment and then say, You know, Brenda, perhaps am still feeling a bit under the weather.

Determine an assignation two weeks hence. Can only hope she will have forgotten request for free clothing alteration by then.

June: Queen Francine

             Francine. Queen Francine. She tossed her hair. It was silky and long. Her cheeks were high and full, like the Chinese Tang Dynasty women who, incidentally, had provided the model for the Japanese geisha. Francine gazed at her visage in the glass. A smile of approval played on her lips. She clipped her hair to the top of her head, a gentle “pouf” of hair gracing the top of her head. Perfect.

Francine was quite aware of the social pressure on a woman’s physicality and was equally keen to use it to her advantage. Accessorizing had always been a central component to her presentation. Francine did not, however, limit herself only to hair and clothing. She had discovered that other women were in truth the best accessory, making her appear as a stellar sun around which a lesser constellation of dimly lit stars were arrayed. As a consequence, Francine was regularly casting about for new, reasonably attractive acolytes.

Lena was a perfect fit because she was new to the program and thus knew few people. Therefore she would presumably be slightly desperate for friends and hence amenable to recruitment. And it is true that initially, Lena was grateful for another friend who was not of her year. Graduate students tend to form abnormally close bonds with those who begin the same year as they do, to their perennial regret thereafter. Yet it was that soon after being recruited, Lena began noticing that other men and women in Francine’s chosen field (the “Korea” field) all congregated together, with one conspicuous absence: Francine. Lena had asked one of them who had begun the program  with Francine why this was. His explanation turned out to be rather elliptical:

“You know, Lena, I think you’re probably just closer to her than I am.” Nothing about all the other people in the Korean program, nothing about himself other than an oblique reference to his presumably emotional proximity to Francine.

It wasn’t until weeks later that Lena fully understood the implications of Joseph’s response.

*

            “Lena, Lena!”

            “Hmmm?” Lena shook the wool from her head.

            “I was saying that something wonderful has happened.”

            Lena, who had been daydreaming about some discount piece of silk organza she could make into a skirt, tried to focus on the present. She spoke the universal query of the intelligent, “Huh?”

            “I said something wonderful has just happened! Honestly, didn’t you hear anything I just said? Never mind. I was just telling you I got this fellowship and I’m going to Korea in just a few weeks—isn’t it fantastic?”

            And I should be excited why? Lena wondered. But, polite to the end, Lena, agreed, less enthusiastically, “Oh, really?”

            Francine didn’t notice the slight edge of sarcasm. She noticed very little for at the moment, she was so enthralled with her own words: “So I thought what we could do is go shopping.”

            At the word shopping, Lena’s ears perked. Her focus shifted from a means of escape to full attention.

            “…I need a few things.”

            “Shopping, that would be great!” Lena enthused.

            “Hu-low! Is anyone in there? Of course it will be great, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Besides, I’ve got a lot of things to buy. And I also need to be taken to the consulate, you know, for a Visa,” Francine gazed into the distanced as she ticked her fingers, “so we can do that after we swing by Neiman’s and Sak’s to pay off my cards, right? And then we can go to the mall.”

            Francine was extremely pleased with the plan. Each location was approximately twenty-five minutes away from the next. I’ve got so much to do. I hope Lena’s car doesn’t break down like it did last time.

            “So, how is your car—is it all fixed? We don’t want to break down.”

            “Oh, you want me to drive?” Lena’s mouth turned downward.

            Uh-oh. “Yes, but don’t worry, I’ll treat you to lunch, okay? We can go to this little Mexican place I know where the salsa is great.”

            “Well, alright, “Lena said doubtfully. “I guess it will still be fun.”

            “Of course it will! We’ll have a great time! So I have to do all this before the end of this week. So what are you doing tomorrow?”

Francine noted the blank look on Lena’s usually intelligent face. Honestly, thought Francine, I just don’t know what is wrong with her today.

*

            It was a hot day, thank heavens for air conditioning. At least, I hope her air is working, Francine thought. The outfit she wore, accentuating her curves and the length of her legs, did little to actually keep her cool. As most who live in really hot climes know, long, loose-fitting clothing offers superior cooling and protection. This, however, was unacceptable to Francine. It was a favor to allow both men and women to gaze upon her beauty. No, she would not cover it with ill-fitting sleeves and billowy pants. Instead, a tightfitting sweater shell was paired with a suitably revealing skirt. The ensemble was completed with a matching cardigan flung carelessly over her shoulders, to shield them from the burning sun. It also signaled the wealth to which Francine aspired.

            “Hey! You made it!”

            “Of course,” replied Lena, with a little annoyance in her voice.

            “Well, I was worried. You know, your car and all. So let’s get going, shall we?”

            “Do you mind if I use the bathroom? There was a lot of traffic on the way over.”

            With a sigh of exasperation, Francine led the way into her in-laws’ house and pointed towards the bathroom. She tapped her feet and then, the moment Lena emerged, she ushered her towards the front door. “We’ve got a lot to do today,” she said brightly. Occasionally Lena displayed behavior which made Francine wonder how she had been accepted to grad school.

            “So, where to first, Miss Bossy?”

            Francine ignored the jab and answered in all seriousness, “Let’s see, first I think we should go to the mall. I’ve got to get some boots because it gets cold in Korea. We also need to go to Saks and Neiman’s because I’ve got to pay off my credit cards.”

            “You’ve got credit cards at both of them!” Lena was shocked.

            “Of course.” Francine shrugged. “it’s not that bad because Martin (her erstwhile husband who was living in Boston at the moment) pays half.”

            “Oh?”

            “Yeah. Martin doesn’t have a job right now. He’s living off his parents’ money while he looks.”

            “Uhh, so are you two going to Korea together?”

            “We’re not sure,” said Francine. “Anyway, I’m going.” And that was all she said about that matter.

            “After we pay off my cards, we can catch a bite to eat at that Mexican restaurant I was telling you about. And then I’ve got to go to the office supply store. I need some things to take with me.”

            “Geez, woman! Is there anywhere else you’d like to go?”

            “Of course! I told you I have to go to the Consulate to get my Visa.”

            Lena expelled a long sigh. “Well, how about we just go to the mall and then we go eat? I’m really hungry and if I have to drive all over creation, I can’t be starving, too.”

            “Well, alright. But how about we go get my boots first and then we can discuss the other places, okay?”

With this astute verbal maneuver, the schedule was set and Francine felt the thrill of anticipation in her stomach. Of course, this may also have been caused by Lena’s sudden acceleration, Francine wasn’t sure.

To diffuse any lingering tension which could result in further erratic driving, Francine generously engaged Lena in conversation: “So, what did you do the rest of yesterday?”

Unbeknownst to her, this was just the segue Lena required to launch a tirade about a man who had singled her out from her friends to flirt. The problem was that he didn’t seem interested in impressing Lena so much as he was in demonstrating his own suavity. It embarrassed Lena and made her feel bad about her friends.

“What’s the problem? As long as he admires you, that’s the way it should be.” Francine’s tone was puzzled.

“The problem is that it wasn’t about me as a woman, I was merely a vehicle for his ego. And besides, when he singled me out, it made everyone else feel bad.”

“Well, that’s not your fault. You don’t get any points for being ‘considerate’ to other women. They certainly wouldn’t be considerate about you,” she said confidently.

“Geez. I hope I don’t have friends that callous. Besides I still feel bad.”

This was met with a disapproving sigh. Lena darted a glance at Francine, afraid what might come next, but Francine appeared to have finished with the lecture.

Instead, Francine seemed to be engrossed in some private joke that was affording her no end of amusement.

At length, Lena sighed and submitted to the inevitable: “So, what were you thinking?”

“I was just thinking about what you were saying and it reminded me of this time when some of my friends gave me a birthday present to this trendy hairdresser downtown. He was this tall blonde guy and he really thought he was an Adonis. Of course he started flirting with me. He asked me what I did and I told him ‘I’m a graduate student.’ And then he asked me, ‘So, what did you graduate in?’ I laughed so hard and he was soo embarrassed!”

Lena laughed and admitted to herself it was amusing but wondered about the point. Being a straightforward person, she asked, “So, what’s your point?”

“My point is, that men should be bowing to you. That’s the way it is in this world.”

“I don’t know. That sounds pretty ruthless.”

Francine shook her head, “I like myself: I’m pretty, I’m confident, smart and I’m fun to be with. If that makes men fawn, so what? After all, it’s what men do best. Like did I tell you about my time at Wellesley?”

            Lena emitted a grunt in response—as if traffic required more concentration then could be had if she also listened to another of Francine’s triumphs. She even added a, “Gad, people are driving really crazy today!”—to no avail.

            “Well, we used to have these gatherings with the boys from Harvard. And let me tell you, they were really impressed with themselves. Always thought they could have any girl they wanted.” She glanced at Lena for a reaction, but none seemed imminent.

            “Well, I decided that it was my duty to teach them that they weren’t all that. Especially the white guys. They always thought that I should be grateful just because I’m Asian. I mean, I’m not even Chinese, which is what they thought I was! So every time a white guy would ask me out, I’d always pretend to think about it and then at the last minute, I’d tell them no.” Francine almost bubbled with laughter at the memories.

*

            For Francine, the mall was synonymous with Bloomingdales. It was truly the only store worth shopping at—its selection of handbags included Gucci and its shoe department carried some Robert Clergerie. She casually weaved through the designer displays with Lena in tow, offering commentary on the merits of one shoe versus another. Then she settled upon the boot display.

            “What I need,” she explained, “is something that will cover my calves. It gets cold in Korea so I have to bundle up.”

            “Does the price matter to you?” Lena asked.

            “Of course! I don’t want to spend more than seven hundred dollars. Don’t you think that’s reasonable?”

            “Is that a trick question?” Suddenly Lena espied a stiletto sandal on “sale” for two hundred and fifty dollars. “Look at these! Aren’t they awful? Men are always designing things that women can barely walk in so they can oppress you…” Lena’s voice trailed off as she saw Francine’s face. “Oh, did you like those?”

            A frown crossed Francine’s mouth, but it turned up again when a unctuous young salesman approached her just as Lena escaped. “May I help you?”

            Francine flashed red lips his way and replied in the affirmative. “I need some boots for winter.”

            “Okay—.”

            “And they need to be something I can wear with both short and long skirts, so maybe a taller boot?” Francine flicked her wrist carelessly to the side. “You know what I mean?”

            “I think I have just the boot for you—let me go and get this…”

            “Actually, you know what would be really helpful? If you could find me a long skirt and maybe a short one, as well? Then I can hold them up to these boots over here,” she indicated a pair of Stuart Weitzman’s. “I just want to be certain they’ll look good with both lengths. Could you do that for me?” She gave an encouraging little flick of her hand towards the Katayone Adeli clothing section.

            Francine then glanced around her. I wonder where Lena’s gotten to? Ahh, there she is. “Yoohoo! Lena. Come take a look at these boots. What do you think?”      

*

            At Saks, Francine decided that she couldn’t pay her bill without initially touring the shoe department. A decidedly polished salesman sidled up to Francine and greeted her heartily, “Hey, how are you doing? I haven’t seen you in a while. Have you seen the new Gucci slides we got?”

            Francine flicked her hair and simpered. The service at Saks really is excellent. I’ll miss it. “Yes, well I’m actually leaving for Korea.”

            The man of the unctuous smile gave an interested nod, “Oh, really? Well, that means you’ll need some new shoes, won’t you?”

            Francine demurred and confessed that she was really here to pay off her bill and thus was just browsing through the latest arrivals.

            “Ahh, well, we’ll miss you. Have a good trip and I’ll look for you when you get back.” With this he nodded and glided towards another Young Thing.

            “Well,” Francine turned to Lena, “Shall we go up to the credit office?”

            Lena shrugged in the affirmative.

            “Ooo, wait, what’s that?” Francine gravitated towards a golf bag that was black nylon. “It’s a Prada golf bag! I wonder how much it is?”

            Lena waited as she looked around and confirmed that the salespeople were, indeed, too painfully hip to actually offer assistance. Instead, they seemed to confuse their jobs with being manikins. Lena turned back to Francine and asked, “And? What’s the verdict?”

            Instead of answering, Francine just stood and gave a desirous sigh. Francine calculated the amount of strategic financing necessary to acquire it. She regularly beat her father at golf. Perhaps a bet was in order, one that entailed the Prada golf bag as prize. She smiled and the spring in her step returned, “Come on, Lena, we still have much to do!”

            Clearly, this was a situation that required proactivity. So Lena stooped and checked the price herself. For a moment, the price rendered her silent, as well. Then she straightened and wordlessly followed Francine to the elevator.

*

           It was nearing 4 o’clock and Francine saw that Lena was dragging. Three stores in as many different towns, one mall, and one restaurant was a tall order for anyone. But Francine was not to be compared with just anyone, she had a directive to fulfill. On the other hand, Lena normally limited herself to one, perhaps two stores during a single excursion. She had already put over 100 miles on her car and she wanted to see the end of this day. Soon.

“Is that it? I am really tired and we’ve still got traffic to contend with.”

“Well, the Consulate is on the way back,” Francine said brightly. “You can just drop me off in front and then circle around a couple of times ‘til I get back, okay?”

“What do you mean, ‘circle around’—don’t they have parking?”

“Actually, no.” Francine’s voice was ever slightly apologetic, “It’s in a big building off a big thoroughfare and you can’t stop there. But the blocks are really long so you’ll probably only have to circle around twice. I promise I’ll be as quick as possible.”

As they reached the front of the Consulate building, Lena saw traffic bearing down on her in the rearview mirror.

“Look, I’m going to have to drop you off on the side of the building because I can’t just pull over in traffic like this.”

Francine conceded graciously, “Alright. I’ll be back in a jiffy, okay?”

In the end, the stop occupied twenty minutes, during which time Francine blithely flirted with the young South Korean national standing next to her. He was actually returning home and needed to submit some paperwork. She laughed at his sweet nothings and discovered that he would be in South Korea the same time that she was. He planned to return to the States a year later to attend the Culinary Institute of America.

“He has definite possibilities,” Francine said later.

I thought you were married, thought Lena. But she said nothing, simply nodded as she concentrated on the weaving, stop-and-go traffic.

“He’s so different—not like Martin. It must be the military training, you know? They have to learn to be self-sufficient. I think that’s a problem when you’re born here.”

Since Lena herself was not Korean-American, she felt she couldn’t comment on this. So instead she chose to throw tact and caution to the wind and asked, “So, are you planning on seeing him or something? What about Martin?”

Francine’s lips flattened and admitted, “Things aren’t so great with him right now.”

“Ahhh.” There was really nothing more to be said.

Francine shot a raised eyebrow at Lena. “Well, he was just being friendly. I mean, I won’t know anyone there so it will be good to have someone to talk to and show me around a bit.”

“Right, right.”

Again Francine looked over at Lena to make certain irony wasn’t part of Lena’s unspoken dialogue. It seemed however that Lena was in earnest, focusing as it were on the throng of traffic.

After two hours, Lena delivered Francine to her in-laws’ home.

Francine was the picture of grace now that she had achieved her goals. “Do you want to come in?” She gave Lena a limpid gaze. “You look a little hot, maybe you could use some soda or a beer?”

Lena paused for a moment. Then she asked, “So, when did you say you were leaving?”

“Next Wednesday. Why?”

“No reason. You know what, on second thought I think I really would like that beer.”

December: The Tree, Part IV

All these constituted justifiable sacrifices in Tony’s mind. After all, the result was not simply an overabundance of education (which in Brittany’s mind equated with “underemployed”), but finally Tony would have mastered Chinese-ness. For it was this elusive quality that propelled his studies, and it was frankly only his unacknowledged privilege as a white man that allowed him to think he could acquire this “othered” illusion. For Tony wanted to capture the exotic Chinese culture for himself, embody it as only a Euro-American could desire. Only then would it relinquish its fascinating hold and he could become human again.

Thus from Tony’s point of view, things were pootling along admirably well. He had just discovered that his TA-ship would be extended into the spring term and in Tony’s view, this meant additional steady income until the end of the school year.

As for Brittany, she ought to appreciate not simply the promise of more income, but the effort Tony was putting forth. He was, in his own eyes, truly holding up his end of the bargain, for not only was he successfully progressing in his academic pursuits, he was working, as well. As for the time spent on these occupations, again, their result, in both his success and an additional $775 per month before taxes surely added up to seven-hundred and seventy-five points in his favor.

In Tony’s mind, Brittany was “only” working full-time, and though she was making twice his salary and half yet again, still it was all she had to do. That, and cook. And perhaps clean. Nevertheless, she was clearly not juggling as many responsibilities as was Tony. Which reasoning led to Tony’s slightly dismissive responses towards Brittany. Tony, after all, was certain that, at the end of the year, during Christmas holiday, Brittany would understand the subtleties of his decisions, appreciate their eminent logic and just-ness, resulting in total vindication of himself.

In real terms, in spite of all lofty justifications, the money Tony was making was rather paltry. In addition to which the work occupied a majority of his spare time. Spare time slated for Brittany.

The situation between them became increasingly tense. Plaints beginning with “Tony, honey, can we…” were rejoined with “I’m sorry, Brittany, I’ve got grading (or lesson-planning) to do.”

Because the month leading up to Christmas was comprised primarily of variations on the above theme, let us draw a veil over that period and skip directly to that esteemed holiday, or rather, to the week of classes preceding the four-week vacation. This week proved particularly trying for both Brittany and Tony. On Brittany’s side, the stress of work had increased exponentially because of her boss’s pregnancy. Delivery of said pregnancy, that is. Most women proclaim that the first trimester is the worst, hormonally speaking, but Brittany’s boss was determined to buck that trend. Instead, she had become cranky in the extreme, doing an impressive job of channeling her own, to be born, baby. In consequence Brittany’s nerves had been stretched to limits unbeknownst to either herself or her husband. Cooking she insisted was out of the question. Thus, despite the exorbitant cost, they decided to stock up on prepared foods from the local upscale market, mixed with a selection of frozen entrees.

Tony was also experiencing a heightened level of stress. Not only did he have to complete a thirty-five page paper consisting of two drawn-out conclusions in painfully dry prose, he had grading thirty undergraduate papers, as well as their final exams. These then needed to be tallied for the professor who, in essence, would put his stamp of approval on them and then turn them in to be officially recorded.

Finally there was the Christmas tree. Although the winter break was a month long for Tony, most of it occurred after the Christmas day itself. Brittany had insisted they simply could not wait until after he was through with finals week to get a tree: they would have less than a week to enjoy its symbol of anticipation and wonder. No, it must be acquired the week of finals. Surprisingly enough, Tony acquiesced and they procured a tree with a minimum of wrangling. What’s more Tony had successfully strung up the four sets of lights, adorned the tree with ornaments and topped its crown with a fitting monument. It was beautiful.

It was crooked.

“Tony, the tree is tilted.”

“What do you mean, it’s tilted? Let me see. No it isn’t. It looks great!”

“It’s fine, Brittany,” Tony insisted. He had, after all, struggled with it for over an hour. He had tried to hammer, skewer, and otherwise beat the stump onto the flimsy stand they had bought the previous year. He refused to contemplate that this had all been for nought.

“No, honey, it is crooked,” Brittany pulled his arm. Come over here and look.”

Tony sighed and reluctantly moved next to her, “It looks fine to me.”

“Well it isn’t. It’s definitely lopsided. I’d really like you to fix it,” she looked at him with pleading eyes.

He sighed again and replied, “Alright, just hold it while I unscrew the bottom…”

“No! You can’t do it like that. You have to do it right.”

“What do you mean, ‘do it right?’”

Brittany looked triumphantly at him.

*

The next day, Tony’s somewhat dejected visage was noted and drew sympathy.

“Dude, what’s wrong with you? C’mon, buddy, it’s almost vacation!” This, from the lips of a “funded baby” who had nothing to do except study and party. After all, no matter what any Humanities grad student will protest, they simply do not study all those hours they claim to. After a full four hours at school (from ten to two) and a few hours of studying, when the clock chimes six, the inevitable happens: alcohol and friends. Or alcohol and a significant other, though maintaining a successful relationship in addition to their “work” is a difficult business at best. Witness the troubles between Tony and Brittany. Better to stick with friends who demand nothing further than camaraderie through a haze of alcoholic euphoria.

            A wry grin played on Tony’s lips, “Yeah? And what are you so happy about? Busy keeping the bars in business? Geez, man, don’t you ever work?”

“I think I detect a little bitterness. Why don’t you come out with me after class tonight? There’s a great place I found that serves twenty different beers on tap. I know you like beer. And their burger kills. My treat,” he offered generously. Nathan, it was well-known, was a balding young[-ish] grad student had deemed it his duty to rate all the food-serving bars within ten miles of school according to beer tap selection and burger quality.

“Can’t. Gotta go home after classes today.”

“Uh-oh. Do I hear the chain whipping? What’s she got you doing now?”

Now this was a tricky business. To admit the specifics of his task was to reinforce the image of Brittany as a stereotype. Nathan had made more than one snide comment about Brittany: they had met once, to mutual antipathy. Nathan thought Brittany spoiled and self-centered. Brittany thought Nathan a boor. Nathan clearly didn’t respect Brittany which admittedly pained Tony, for she was the woman he loved.

The other side was that Tony wanted to complain. Which he had done more than once. It was a precarious balance, to convince himself that he was being respectful to Brittany while simultaneously unburdening his marital troubles with inordinate detail that not coincidentally favored him and not Brittany.

Tony’s self-pity took hold, “Brittany wants me to go home and fix the Christmas tree we got.”

“Fix the tree? What does that mean?”

He sighed. “It’s crooked. So she wants me to take off all the ornaments, take off the lights and then cut the bottom straight.” He paused, “She certain that’s the problem.”

This last part was rather difficult to hear due to the laughter erupting from Nathan’s mouth. One might even term it insensitive. He snorted a last laugh and then wiped his eyes, “Dude, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! Why don’t you just adjust the screws like every other normal person does?”

“I tried to tell her that. She wants it done this way. So, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Well, if you have time after, I’ll be at the O’Brien’s with a couple of the other guys. Drop by.” And with this, he left, chuckling his way down the hall.

Which is how, on a balmy evening in December, Tony could be seen sawing away at a Christmas tree stump, with a small kitchen saw, cursing lowly.

His wife gazed down on him from the kitchen window above, satisfaction suffusing her face.

The Department be damned.

She had won.