THREE
At half past two I left the union and headed to class. I once again passed through the azaleas and by the MLK reflective pool where a few weary Northies dipped their bare feet in the water to cool off. They love the idea of going to school near the beach, but have only superficial knowledge of Tampa in early September. Many of my friends get aggravated with the Northies stating that they stink up the lecture halls with baked coconut sunscreen and sweaty jorts. I have no problem with them coming to school here. The out-of-state tuition is horrendous and, in turn, offsets mine to a mere one hundred dollars a credit hour. I say let them pay five times what the education is worth.
African American Literature- I was worried when I signed up for the course that it would be a hour and a half “hate whitey” session twice a week, but when I saw that the profession was black I knew my fears to be irrational. Professors that instruct in racially or ethnically controversial topics are the most self loathing creatures to walk this planet. A man teaching a women’s study course; a Caucasian teaching African history, each lecture ends with some diatribe soliloquy about self improvement. Humble are those who instruct a topic they are not an expert of, for they shall inherit a tenure. I did not pay three hundred dollars to hear a sap lecture about self help, and I know the Northies didn’t pay fifteen hundred for the same.
Charles Chessnut, The Colonel’s Dream, a black man writing about a white, southern, Confederate Colonel who returns south after the war to inevitable free the already freed black citizens of his small town from slavery. Charles must have known that such a topic would not canonize him, nor immortalize his cause. Plus, he was neither an alcoholic nor a womanizer. Nonetheless, he will now live among my other dead friends, as his tribulations are not wasted on my mind.
~~~
I loved the afternoons on campus. There was a lighter mood aloft as many students had completed their studies for the day and had resigned to the coolness provided by the Spanish moss covered palms around Cooper Hall. Everything moved slower, even time seemed to inch along the stone composite walkways. Beneath the trees students tossed a Frisbee disk while others sat atop the crab grass and smoked clove cigarettes.
The few tables beneath the shade were a sought after commodity in the afternoons. They were often filled with various Liberal Arts cliques. The Philosophy students were always easy to discover with their ragged clothing and unkempt hair many of them spouting off some epiphany, unsuccessfully attempting to one-up their classmates. The writers often had a table as well. They were a mix of collared shirts and tees and one particular young man that always wore a white undershirt with a pack of American Spirits rolled in the left sleeve, blue jeans and Converse All-stars. I would sit with them sometimes, but often got discouraged at the constant use of the words “what if”.
I noticed Bernadette sitting with the writers. Her blond hair was streaked in honey and pulled up in the back, held together by a pencil. Her glasses were thick framed and were in contradiction to her petite build. There was no doubt that she was attractive, but I never saw her as anything but a friends and a meal ticket. She was a genius with a work ethic that I envied. She was going to be something important some day when all of the other writers she was sitting with would be working as book store clerks, or if they are lucky grant writers. She was my way in.
“Hey come and sit with us, we’ll make room.” Bernie called out to me.
“Sure, I can stay for a bit.” I learned long ago to always have an out before I sat.
“How is the brickyard story coming?” The young man in the James Dean outfit, whose name was Charlie Thacker asked me. He was referring to a story I work shopped in a Form and Technique of Fiction course I took the previous year.
“Just fine, I’m trying some new ideas. I’m not quite sure which direction I want to take it yet.”
“Did you read the comments I wrote you?” He unrolled the pack of cigarettes from his sleeve.
No. “Yes, and they were definitely helpful. Thank you.” I seldom read other students feedback, many of them were either trying to be too nice to give honest comments or their suggestions were damning to the fundamental idea of the story.
“I liked it,” Bernadette added. “You should bring it to the Library tomorrow so that I can read your edits.”
“I don’t agree. Well, yes it has potential. I just really think the setting is all wrong.” Charlie said with a cigarette in his mouth just before he lighted it.
His comment, although not out of the ordinary for Charlie, raised my temperature slightly. “Okay, let’s hear it then.”
“The South is all wrong for the cultural conflict of the story. The New England political climate would hold more worth.” He flicked his ash.
“The story is call The Brickyard, its about brickyard workers in Georgia. How exactly would these parameters of the story work in New England Charlie?” I leaned toward him slightly.
“I guess it wouldn’t, but it doesn’t work in the South either, and it’s Charles.” He put out the cigarette.
“Excuse me.”
“I go by Charles now.”
“Oh, I see. Since when?”
His face became rose colored. This had the opposing effect on me as my temperature dropped and I collected myself.
“Since it is more serious.”
“Charles has always been more serious.”
“I guess.”
“So what do you think that says about you up to this point?”
Charlie clenched his teeth and his jaw became visibly squared as he stared at me.
“Bernie, I’ll see you in the morning.” I stood, turned and walked away not wishing it to escalate further.
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