The Circle got interesting when Grace criticized Bob for his spartan writing style. I didn't say anything, for I, too, believed Bob could have used an adjective or two in his leaf-blower-verses-broom story. The Circle got more interesting when Bob shot back at Grace, accusing her of mistaking her thesaurus for a vibrator. Again, I didn't say anything, for I, too, found Grace's writing on the juicy side--sexing up her soccer-mom story with words like 'equipoise.' But when Svitlana, defending Grace, declared a painter only as good as her broad palette, I had to say something.
"Svitlana," I had said, "you might want to borrow Grace's good book." Then I proceeded to point out the six places Svitlana had used the word ardent in her seven page love story.
No, strolling my neck of Eden, hungover, was downer enough, add to that the guilt I felt for making a tough girl like Svitlana cry, well, it was enough to make a guy want to fetch his shovel, dig himself a hole, call it a life.
Dragging my feet up the grade north of Glass, I spied a pile of dirt. At first I thought, what luck, a grave pre-dug. But, no, what I had here was art. But mostly what I had here was yet another art student who had installed their artwork without filling out the proper forms--forms I had to sign off on. And, no, it wasn't the breach itself that pissed me off; it was me, not getting to sign off.
Hey, we groundskeepers liked to feel important, too.
Though I had every right to get angry at the art student, I couldn't; turned out, I was rather fond of this art. No, this art wasn't any old pile of dirt; this art was nothing short of a woman's breast.
Standing over the mammoth breast I saw what else we had here--an opportunity to feel important. No, I'd witnessed any number of class critiques on campus; saw the degree to which the students ate up their professor's orchestrations. Which brought to mind Grace's vibrator. No, Grace's 'equipoise' was so much soda cracker up against the juicy 'juxtapose' I'd heard that Book Arts prof drop last week.
Seeing no one around, I went into professor mode. "Class," I said, finger to lip, "what exactly do we have here?"
Class didn't know what we had here.
I assessed the breast by cocking my head right, left, then nodded my approval. "What we have here, class, is one nice breast. One nice breast, indeed. First, let me touch on the juxtaposition of--"
Wait; students at ACCW were largely female.
"And by nice breast I mean, of course, nice rendering. I mean, plating an areola out of apple leaves, using an apple for a nipple. No, really, class, have you ever seen the like?"
Nope, class had never seen the like.
OK, then, time to really shed some light. "Next I want you all to take note on just how accurately said artist has rendered said breast. And by you all, I mean you boys. For the life of me, I can't understand why you boys can't render your breasts right."
Boys didn't say anything.
"Check it out boys. This is how a breast behaves when a woman takes to lying on her back, gravity broadening and shallowing the volume like an upside down birdbath. Am I right, girls?"
Girls didn't say anything.
"Question Class: Why only the one breast? Wouldn't Mother Nature have two? Which begs a follow-up question: Is it right for us to anthropomorphize our mother?"
Class looked at professor as if he had used too big a word.
It dawned on the professor, then, what the artist had in mind in the way of content. "I'm surprised at you class; not knowing what the artist had in mind in the way of content. I've known all along, of course, but I didn't want to insult your intelligence. See, class, there's this myth--a Greek myth, actually--wherein there exists a nation; a nation of women who don only the one breast. What nation do I speak of, class?"
Class didn't speak.
"Boys? Girls? Anyone?"
Anyone didn't say anything.
"Amazons, you morons. Amazons."
And that's when it hit me; I wasn't cut out for professing--too much babysitting. Back to groundskeeping, back to my precious few--my plants and animals who knew how to raise themselves.
Let's see, where was I? Oh, yes; sleuthing out this crime scene. I got down on a knee. Fondling the crime scene, my hand passed over a telltale texture. No doubt the very shoe print of said criminal. Slapping on my reading glasses, I examined the tread--a tread I'd seen before somewhere. A tread I'd seen . . . Oh, no--seen in my kitchen nook, knifing the dried mud out of my lug soles.
Kicking myself in the ass, I hobbled off to get my tools.
Having shoveled the breast into my wheelbarrow, I got the bright idea of wheeling the breast into the orchard. Having dumped the dirt on Coral's lone stepping stone, I stepped back, placed my hand over my reading glasses. "Rest in Peace," I said.
Monday, I roamed the campus working on the lines a guy might lay on a girl working the Front Desk. Lines too ardent, of course, to actually lay.
The ardency worked out of me, I opened the glass door of The Center. Entering, Coral welcomed me with a big smile--the biggest, warmest to date. No, walking into that smile was like walking into God's greatest sunrise.
"Boy," I said, checking my box, "that sure is a big book you're reading."
"It is," Coral said, standing, carrying her big book towards me. "It's a book on African textiles."
My neck stiffened as she moved in close, positioning herself so I could have a look over her shoulder--a look at an illustration she was pointing to with the very finger she used to stir her ponytail. I was reaching for my reading glasses when I noticed something extraordinary--I could see; see like I could see in my youth.
No more had I laid my new eyes on the youthful ear when my eyesight returned to that of a 46-year-old. A blow, yes, but I stood strong, rallied my back-up senses. Now, if I could only manage to feel the heat radiating off her ear, I'd remain forever young. I concentrated, and sure enough, my lower lip warmed.
With the enthusiasm of a school girl, Coral launched her show-and-tell.
With the frustration of a professor, I repressed the lunch I wanted to make of the schoolgirl's ear.
Squinting, I focused on the flutter this side of her ear. Ah, some of her pony tail had come undone; a few strands trembling due to my heavy breathing. I cocked my head right, left, that I might better see how a guy might apply his tongue to those precious few, press them like pimentos into the curving fold of her coral ear--that living coral that was but a tongue away from my parting lips.
Coral's hand appeared then, tucking the wayward hairs behind her ear.
Thank God we civilized males knew how to work a thermostat. One way to cool down is to launch some cold analysis. Take the enthusiasm school-girl Coral was putting into her show-and-tell. Was this enthusiasm exclusive to school girls, or was it behavior common to women at large? At large it was. For who hadn't observed large grandmothers taking on sweet-school-girl mannerisms when they were showing their grandchildren something?
Which begged the question: Why do males find female enthusiasm infectious? Answer: Because males don't get enthused about much of anything.
Well, other than making lunch of a school girl's ear.
****
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