than Constitution, because Constitution stank with the worst smell of all – hypocrisy.
I will not comment on the deficiencies of this passage. I will only say I wrote these words with a sense of exhilarating release, as if an aching tooth had been torn from a tender, swollen gum. But even then I felt a prickly uneasiness linger. I could not shake the feeling that I knew this man. I believed we shared a history.
My attachment to Sam, however, could not compensate for the ludicrousness of my calling myself a writer. Of course, I skated over all such thin spots with extreme care during my chat with he extension officer. When I said my book hadn’t had a wide readership I wasn’t being modest. I was leading her to infer that a small but nevertheless select audience had savoured my prose with much appreciative smacking of lips.
The truth was, the book had never been published, hadn’t even been submitted to a publishing house. As far as I knew, its readership consisted of myself, and possibly, just possibly, Victoria. For on completing my sagebrush
magnum opus
, I had mailed my absent wife a photostat copy of the manuscript, a palpable refutation of her charge that I was incapable of completing anything I began. But I doubt Victoria read it. She was full of hard feelings at the time.
Which puts me in mind of the eight unread student manuscripts stowed under my bed. There will be no more flinching from duty, Ed. I patter off on bare feet to my bedroom, drop on all fours, and peer under the bed. My breathing becomes stertorous and sets long, serpentine boas of slut’s wool to eddying along the floor. I ought to vacuum.
There they are: the inevitable television scripts for
Three’s Company, Dallas, Dynasty
, or
Taxi;
a short story or two; and the latest instalment of Dr. Mandelstam’s bewildering novel about adog who acquires, through surgery, the disgusting habits of
homo sapiens
. Dr. Vlady volunteered to me the provenance of this work. “You knowit Mikhail Bulgakov boog?” he demanded. “Wall, this boog is ironic rewerse!” To which I nodded sagely, even though I had not the slightest understanding of what he was talking about.
Only Stanley Rubacek never hands in material, secure in the knowledge of his own genius. And mine possibly, too. He tells me there is nothing doing until we reach an agreement. So I have no idea of what he is writing. Not that I care.
Every Bloody Second Fucking Tuesday finds Stanley barricaded behind his stack of smudged and bleary foolscap. It is my custom, when desperation overtakes me and I am at a loss what to do next, to call upon a member of COCWE to read from his manuscript. Discussion then follows. Stanley has always politely but firmly refused to read. He fears plagiarism.
Stanley spends his time in class brooding over his pile of manuscript, bulging shoulders hunched protectively, forearm shielding its southern approaches from prying eyes. Occasionally he plies a vigorous pencil when visited by the divine afflatus. Rubacek writing sounds like someone wire-brushing old paint off house siding. It has entered my mind that he may be dangerous.
A kind of general dread coalesces into a heavy lump in the pit of my stomach whenever I think of Every Bloody Second Fucking Tuesday. In my mind’s eye I can see the long corridor which leads me to room 31, and the reflected light lying in waxy puddles down its length of polished tile. If I walk this corridor with energy and business-like purpose my heels ring out like a doomed man’s. Also my students hear me coming. So Every Second Tuesday I walk soft-footed the first five yards, creep-slide the next ten, and steal on tiptoe the final five. Then I hover indecisively outside the door of the classroom, trying to compose myself and rehearsing my opening remarks, while one distracted ear fills with the hum of voices filtering through the door of room 31.
Opening remarks are crucial. I always mean to begin critically, yet end encouragingly.
I will not comment on the deficiencies of this passage. I will only say I wrote these words with a sense of exhilarating release, as if an aching tooth had been torn from a tender, swollen gum. But even then I felt a prickly uneasiness linger. I could not shake the feeling that I knew this man. I believed we shared a history.
My attachment to Sam, however, could not compensate for the ludicrousness of my calling myself a writer. Of course, I skated over all such thin spots with extreme care during my chat with he extension officer. When I said my book hadn’t had a wide readership I wasn’t being modest. I was leading her to infer that a small but nevertheless select audience had savoured my prose with much appreciative smacking of lips.
The truth was, the book had never been published, hadn’t even been submitted to a publishing house. As far as I knew, its readership consisted of myself, and possibly, just possibly, Victoria. For on completing my sagebrush
magnum opus
, I had mailed my absent wife a photostat copy of the manuscript, a palpable refutation of her charge that I was incapable of completing anything I began. But I doubt Victoria read it. She was full of hard feelings at the time.
Which puts me in mind of the eight unread student manuscripts stowed under my bed. There will be no more flinching from duty, Ed. I patter off on bare feet to my bedroom, drop on all fours, and peer under the bed. My breathing becomes stertorous and sets long, serpentine boas of slut’s wool to eddying along the floor. I ought to vacuum.
There they are: the inevitable television scripts for
Three’s Company, Dallas, Dynasty
, or
Taxi;
a short story or two; and the latest instalment of Dr. Mandelstam’s bewildering novel about adog who acquires, through surgery, the disgusting habits of
homo sapiens
. Dr. Vlady volunteered to me the provenance of this work. “You knowit Mikhail Bulgakov boog?” he demanded. “Wall, this boog is ironic rewerse!” To which I nodded sagely, even though I had not the slightest understanding of what he was talking about.
Only Stanley Rubacek never hands in material, secure in the knowledge of his own genius. And mine possibly, too. He tells me there is nothing doing until we reach an agreement. So I have no idea of what he is writing. Not that I care.
Every Bloody Second Fucking Tuesday finds Stanley barricaded behind his stack of smudged and bleary foolscap. It is my custom, when desperation overtakes me and I am at a loss what to do next, to call upon a member of COCWE to read from his manuscript. Discussion then follows. Stanley has always politely but firmly refused to read. He fears plagiarism.
Stanley spends his time in class brooding over his pile of manuscript, bulging shoulders hunched protectively, forearm shielding its southern approaches from prying eyes. Occasionally he plies a vigorous pencil when visited by the divine afflatus. Rubacek writing sounds like someone wire-brushing old paint off house siding. It has entered my mind that he may be dangerous.
A kind of general dread coalesces into a heavy lump in the pit of my stomach whenever I think of Every Bloody Second Fucking Tuesday. In my mind’s eye I can see the long corridor which leads me to room 31, and the reflected light lying in waxy puddles down its length of polished tile. If I walk this corridor with energy and business-like purpose my heels ring out like a doomed man’s. Also my students hear me coming. So Every Second Tuesday I walk soft-footed the first five yards, creep-slide the next ten, and steal on tiptoe the final five. Then I hover indecisively outside the door of the classroom, trying to compose myself and rehearsing my opening remarks, while one distracted ear fills with the hum of voices filtering through the door of room 31.
Opening remarks are crucial. I always mean to begin critically, yet end encouragingly.
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