Jonestown?
These were Lola freshmen, and he knew they would prove to be bright and conscientious enough, but this morning they were gaping at him like guppies in a tank. As he stood over his notes and roster, giving the introductory silence a moment to settle in, he scanned the rows, searching for an answering human gaze. There it was, unmistakably, directly in front of him in the secondrow, emanating from the lively, kohl-rimmed eyes of a big tattooed person in black leather shorts with a stiff ridge of pink hair running down the middle of his or her otherwise shaven scalp.
“This is Contemporary Moral Issues, Philosophy 101,” Ben announced. “Is everybody in the right place?”
The front-row students snapped opened their notebooks. Some of the athletes put away the sports page. The big pink-haired person smiled at Ben. It was a generous smile, utterly undefended, showing a pierced tongue and much gum tissue and many small teeth. Who are you,
compañero?
, thought Ben. And what is your gender?
“Let me start by saying a few general words about philosophy,” he began as he always did when teaching an entry-level course. “Does anyone happen to know what the word means?” Silence. Nobody ever knew, or if they did they were too cowed to speak out. Ben turned to the blackboard, writing PHILO in bold block letters. “ ‘Philo’ means love,” said Ben, “or ‘love of “ Below PHILO he wrote SOPHY. “Or,” he added, erasing the Y and replacing it with LA, “‘sophia.’ Can anyone guess what that meant in the original Greek?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Wisdom,” called out a voice as gender-indeterminate as Big Bird's.
“Right,” said Ben. “Philosophia. Love of wisdom. How do we show our love of wisdom?”
Silence.
“How do we
seek
wisdom?”
A girl in the front row raised her hand. Ben nodded. “We ask questions?”
“That's right,” said Ben. “And this semester that's exactly what we'll be doing.”
W hat in hell kind of name is ‘Ricia’?” asked Ben. Ruth was sitting at the desk in his study in front of the computer screen; he was standing over her. They'd gotten onto the subject of the Spottiswoode/Johnses at the dinner table and decided on the spot to do some research. With Isaac out of the house, they could leave the remnants of their omelets and salad on the table, act on this kind of impulse. The computer was taking its time to boot up.
“It's short for Patricia. Pa
treesha.”
“Pat is short for Patricia. Patty is short for Patricia. I never heard of Ricia.”
“What's she like?” asked Ruth. “Is she attractive?”
“She's ethereal-looking,” said Ben. “Ophelia-like. Not beautiful.” She wasn't, it was true, and it was always wise to make this kind of stipulation when he could do so without lying. “She does have amazing red hair,” he added after a moment.
“Affected?”
“I thought so. I don't know poets. She could be a regular Will Rogers by their standards.”
“She's not a poet. She started out as one but now she's a memoirist. That's how she made her reputation. And then she wrote one of those spiritual how-to-write books. What's the husband like?”
“He's big, like a bodyguard. Much older. He could be my age.” The computer gave its “I am born” electronic trill.
“Here we go,” said Ruth. “Amazon first, or Google?”
“Come on,” said Ben. “Let me do it. Let me sit.”
Grumbling a little, Ruth stood. Ben sat down, drew himselfcloser to the desk, squared the mouse on the mouse pad, and brought up the Amazon home page. “What's her memoir called?”
“I'm Nobody.”
Ben tapped in the title. The page materialized, and the book. “Enlarge it,” said Ruth. The cover was a full-body photograph of Ricia lying submerged in water. She was shown from above, eyes wide and blank, vague garments spreading, hair billowing. The title was rendered in watery script above her head. The subtitle,
Who Are You?
, floated between her
These were Lola freshmen, and he knew they would prove to be bright and conscientious enough, but this morning they were gaping at him like guppies in a tank. As he stood over his notes and roster, giving the introductory silence a moment to settle in, he scanned the rows, searching for an answering human gaze. There it was, unmistakably, directly in front of him in the secondrow, emanating from the lively, kohl-rimmed eyes of a big tattooed person in black leather shorts with a stiff ridge of pink hair running down the middle of his or her otherwise shaven scalp.
“This is Contemporary Moral Issues, Philosophy 101,” Ben announced. “Is everybody in the right place?”
The front-row students snapped opened their notebooks. Some of the athletes put away the sports page. The big pink-haired person smiled at Ben. It was a generous smile, utterly undefended, showing a pierced tongue and much gum tissue and many small teeth. Who are you,
compañero?
, thought Ben. And what is your gender?
“Let me start by saying a few general words about philosophy,” he began as he always did when teaching an entry-level course. “Does anyone happen to know what the word means?” Silence. Nobody ever knew, or if they did they were too cowed to speak out. Ben turned to the blackboard, writing PHILO in bold block letters. “ ‘Philo’ means love,” said Ben, “or ‘love of “ Below PHILO he wrote SOPHY. “Or,” he added, erasing the Y and replacing it with LA, “‘sophia.’ Can anyone guess what that meant in the original Greek?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Wisdom,” called out a voice as gender-indeterminate as Big Bird's.
“Right,” said Ben. “Philosophia. Love of wisdom. How do we show our love of wisdom?”
Silence.
“How do we
seek
wisdom?”
A girl in the front row raised her hand. Ben nodded. “We ask questions?”
“That's right,” said Ben. “And this semester that's exactly what we'll be doing.”
W hat in hell kind of name is ‘Ricia’?” asked Ben. Ruth was sitting at the desk in his study in front of the computer screen; he was standing over her. They'd gotten onto the subject of the Spottiswoode/Johnses at the dinner table and decided on the spot to do some research. With Isaac out of the house, they could leave the remnants of their omelets and salad on the table, act on this kind of impulse. The computer was taking its time to boot up.
“It's short for Patricia. Pa
treesha.”
“Pat is short for Patricia. Patty is short for Patricia. I never heard of Ricia.”
“What's she like?” asked Ruth. “Is she attractive?”
“She's ethereal-looking,” said Ben. “Ophelia-like. Not beautiful.” She wasn't, it was true, and it was always wise to make this kind of stipulation when he could do so without lying. “She does have amazing red hair,” he added after a moment.
“Affected?”
“I thought so. I don't know poets. She could be a regular Will Rogers by their standards.”
“She's not a poet. She started out as one but now she's a memoirist. That's how she made her reputation. And then she wrote one of those spiritual how-to-write books. What's the husband like?”
“He's big, like a bodyguard. Much older. He could be my age.” The computer gave its “I am born” electronic trill.
“Here we go,” said Ruth. “Amazon first, or Google?”
“Come on,” said Ben. “Let me do it. Let me sit.”
Grumbling a little, Ruth stood. Ben sat down, drew himselfcloser to the desk, squared the mouse on the mouse pad, and brought up the Amazon home page. “What's her memoir called?”
“I'm Nobody.”
Ben tapped in the title. The page materialized, and the book. “Enlarge it,” said Ruth. The cover was a full-body photograph of Ricia lying submerged in water. She was shown from above, eyes wide and blank, vague garments spreading, hair billowing. The title was rendered in watery script above her head. The subtitle,
Who Are You?
, floated between her
Similar Books
