Straight Man

was above things, peeking down at my colleagues from the gap between the ceiling tiles, today literally nothing is beneath me. When I entered the classroom, several of my students hastily folded up their campus newspapers, dropping them to the floor so that their professor could stare up at them from shoe level. I am pictured on the front page, and unless I’m mistaken several of my apprentice writers are dealing with the oppressive classroom silence by grinding their heels into my wry, smiling countenance. It occurs to me that I’m experiencing my father’s classroom dilemma in reverse. It’s my students who are speechless.
    After returning a weeping William Henry Devereaux, Sr., to my mother’s flat, I’ve arrived on campus with just enough time before my workshop to skim the newspaper in the relative privacy of the men’s room stall on the first floor of Modern Languages. Thanks to the demise of yesterday’s duck and my growing celebrity, the story detailing the incident in Tony Coniglia’s classroom has been pushed back to page two below the fold. Thankfully, there’s no photo of Tony, or of Yolanda Ackles. Unfortunately, the paper did print the young woman’s claim that she and her former professor were lovers, that in her belief Professor Coniglia was God, that he spoke to her through dreams and fevers. June Barnes, as chair of the sexual harassment-professional conduct committee, assured the campus reporter that the incident was under investigation, though she noted that the young woman in question had a history of mental illness. What did June think of the young woman’s allegations? Well, she had known ProfessorConiglia for twenty years and could say with confidence that he was not God. When asked if she considered Professor Coniglia to be one of those professors who regarded undergraduate women as a “pool of potential sexual partners,” a reference to an opinion piece printed in the campus magazine June edits, she offered a damning no comment. Still, given the standards of the campus newspaper, this is relatively high-road coverage.
    There’s also a late-entry, boxed story on the bottom of the front page announcing the strike vote meeting set for late afternoon, urging all faculty to attend.
    Just when I’ve concluded that no one’s going to speak today, one of my seniors says, “I know this is kind of off the subject, but is it true we may not graduate?”
    “Is it true you’ve been fired for killing ducks?” asks another student, who seems to have concluded that if off-the-subject stuff is allowed, then there’s plenty to talk about. I can’t quite tell from her tone whether my being fired for killing ducks would be a good or a bad thing.
    “I heard the donkey basketball game’s been canceled,” observes another student. Now,
this
I hadn’t heard.
    Suddenly the whole class is talking at once. We’re alive and on the move, albeit in the wrong direction.
    “The subject of today’s workshop is Solange’s story,” I remind them, causing everyone, even Solange, to sulk. The events of the real world, dramatically ratcheted up as they happen to be at this moment, seem infinitely more interesting to my novice writers than a bad made-up story. I’d like to remind them that it doesn’t have to be this way, that we’ve come together so that they might learn how to make up stories that are
more
compelling than real life. The fact that this particular work of fiction makes reality look enchanting does not prove that life is inherently more fascinating than art.
    Solange’s story is titled “The Clouds of August,” and it’s as full of vapor as Leo’s was of misogyny. Every time something threatens to happen in the story, the sky clouds over and the young woman protagonist stops whatever she’s doing to contemplate the clouds. These become progressively darker and more ominous, until by the end of the story they positively rain significance.
    “I like the clouds,” somebody offers. If we’re going to have to talk about the story, this is as good a place as any to begin. “They’re, like, a metaphor.”
    This comment deeply satisfies Solange, everyone can tell.
    “They
are
a metaphor,” I point out. “If they were
like
a metaphor, they’d be, like, a simile.”
    “I liked the clouds too,” somebody else offers. “Good writing.”
    “Are metaphors good?” I ask.
    “Sure. Yeah.” General agreement on this point. “You said so yourself.”
    I decide to take a