Sage?”
She knew exactly how old I was. “Twenty-two.”
“Then act like it and call Hilda. Now. ” She dumped the phone on my desk.
I dialed the number with a cowering finger.
“Hilda Ziehler speaking.”
“Um, hi, Professor Ziehler, it’s Sage Rampion here. I’m just ringing to—”
“To waste more of my time? No. Already I put aside one hour for you this afternoon.”
“I’m so sorry, I was—”
“You still want me to consider you, you email an excellent proposal by this time next week.”
Hilda hung up. Avoiding Andrea’s eye, I replaced the phone on her desk, and crept back to mine. When she left ten minutes later, I wheeled my chair to the window and sat looking at the skylight, touching the place where Ryan’s lips had met my forehead.
* * *
The Library lawns were lined with bushy, gnarled trees that created lots of nooks for benches. Ryan was waiting on one of these, the leaves above him dappling his hair with shade.
“So,” he said as I approached, “are you ready to begin your education in popular culture?”
I adjusted my glasses in a scholarly fashion and produced a ten-year-old black notebook with “Social Studies” written down the spine.
Ryan grinned. “Good. I can see you’re taking this seriously. Now, before we start the lesson, what do we comment on first?”
“Your T-shirt of the day?”
“Excellent! Gold star for the lady with the notebook.”
Today his T-shirt was black, and featured a photograph of a man in a flowered fedora. He was holding a guitar with a circular body and a neck that ended in an arrow, and an odd cross-piece shaped like a J where the body joined the neck. Both man and guitar were orangey-gold.
“Should I know who he is?” I asked.
“Definitely. You don’t, though, do you?”
“Not a clue. Something to do with princes?”
“This man,” said Ryan, plucking importantly at his T-shirt, “ is Prince. Spiritual son of James Brown, King of Funk. As a boy, I hated people singing his songs at me. As a man, I’ve come round.”
I opened my notebook. “Why’s his guitar that shape?”
“That’s the symbol he changed his name to in the nineties.”
With this bizarre pronouncement, Ryan led me to the shopping strip that ran from the college to the skyscrapered realm of the city. Near campus, the windows wore gay-friendly rainbow stickers and the smell of Fairtrade coffee leaked from doorways. As we approached town, the rainbows gave way to boutique restaurants, beige and silver homewares, and a huge, glossy megastore selling books and music, where Ryan stopped.
“Welcome to your new School of Popular Culture!” he said, ushering me in with a grandiose sweep of his arms.
Inside, all was bright lights and towering shelves filled with diet manuals and lurid-looking blockbusters. Ryan swept among these like an animated whirlwind, gathering an armload of books.
He pressed one into my hand. “The Chronicles of Narnia , printed as one volume.” Inside the cover was a hand-drawn map of a forested coast, with a sailing ship and compass just offshore.
“Everyone but everyone reads this as a kid,” said Ryan. “They’ve made some of them into movies.” He held up a book with a photo on the cover of a woman’s hands cupping an apple. “And this ,” he went on, placing it on top of Narnia, “is Twilight . Vampire romance. Massive with teenage girls a few years ago.”
I skimmed the blurb, and picked up my pen. As I started to write notes, Ryan slapped Lord of the Rings on top of Twilight . “Now this, even you must have heard of. It’s—”
“Ryan,” I interrupted.
“Mm?”
“I’m not taking much in here.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I need time to read at least the blurbs.”
“Oh.” He contemplated his armload of books. “Would it help if I summarized the plots?”
“Yes, but that that would take forever.”
“Hmmm.” He looked wistfully up the escalator. “And I haven’t even started on movies and music
She knew exactly how old I was. “Twenty-two.”
“Then act like it and call Hilda. Now. ” She dumped the phone on my desk.
I dialed the number with a cowering finger.
“Hilda Ziehler speaking.”
“Um, hi, Professor Ziehler, it’s Sage Rampion here. I’m just ringing to—”
“To waste more of my time? No. Already I put aside one hour for you this afternoon.”
“I’m so sorry, I was—”
“You still want me to consider you, you email an excellent proposal by this time next week.”
Hilda hung up. Avoiding Andrea’s eye, I replaced the phone on her desk, and crept back to mine. When she left ten minutes later, I wheeled my chair to the window and sat looking at the skylight, touching the place where Ryan’s lips had met my forehead.
* * *
The Library lawns were lined with bushy, gnarled trees that created lots of nooks for benches. Ryan was waiting on one of these, the leaves above him dappling his hair with shade.
“So,” he said as I approached, “are you ready to begin your education in popular culture?”
I adjusted my glasses in a scholarly fashion and produced a ten-year-old black notebook with “Social Studies” written down the spine.
Ryan grinned. “Good. I can see you’re taking this seriously. Now, before we start the lesson, what do we comment on first?”
“Your T-shirt of the day?”
“Excellent! Gold star for the lady with the notebook.”
Today his T-shirt was black, and featured a photograph of a man in a flowered fedora. He was holding a guitar with a circular body and a neck that ended in an arrow, and an odd cross-piece shaped like a J where the body joined the neck. Both man and guitar were orangey-gold.
“Should I know who he is?” I asked.
“Definitely. You don’t, though, do you?”
“Not a clue. Something to do with princes?”
“This man,” said Ryan, plucking importantly at his T-shirt, “ is Prince. Spiritual son of James Brown, King of Funk. As a boy, I hated people singing his songs at me. As a man, I’ve come round.”
I opened my notebook. “Why’s his guitar that shape?”
“That’s the symbol he changed his name to in the nineties.”
With this bizarre pronouncement, Ryan led me to the shopping strip that ran from the college to the skyscrapered realm of the city. Near campus, the windows wore gay-friendly rainbow stickers and the smell of Fairtrade coffee leaked from doorways. As we approached town, the rainbows gave way to boutique restaurants, beige and silver homewares, and a huge, glossy megastore selling books and music, where Ryan stopped.
“Welcome to your new School of Popular Culture!” he said, ushering me in with a grandiose sweep of his arms.
Inside, all was bright lights and towering shelves filled with diet manuals and lurid-looking blockbusters. Ryan swept among these like an animated whirlwind, gathering an armload of books.
He pressed one into my hand. “The Chronicles of Narnia , printed as one volume.” Inside the cover was a hand-drawn map of a forested coast, with a sailing ship and compass just offshore.
“Everyone but everyone reads this as a kid,” said Ryan. “They’ve made some of them into movies.” He held up a book with a photo on the cover of a woman’s hands cupping an apple. “And this ,” he went on, placing it on top of Narnia, “is Twilight . Vampire romance. Massive with teenage girls a few years ago.”
I skimmed the blurb, and picked up my pen. As I started to write notes, Ryan slapped Lord of the Rings on top of Twilight . “Now this, even you must have heard of. It’s—”
“Ryan,” I interrupted.
“Mm?”
“I’m not taking much in here.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I need time to read at least the blurbs.”
“Oh.” He contemplated his armload of books. “Would it help if I summarized the plots?”
“Yes, but that that would take forever.”
“Hmmm.” He looked wistfully up the escalator. “And I haven’t even started on movies and music
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