by Frankie Bow
From my office window, I could see the squat, metal-roofed classroom buildings and, farther up the hill, our weather-beaten dormitories. They actually did look a little like jungle huts, not that I would admit it to my mother.
“Well, we just wanted to say how much we missed you,” my mother said. “We do worry so.”
“Take care, Sweet Pea,” my father added.
“Okay. You too. Thanks for the birthday wishes.”
I rolled my neck to get the kinks out and then looked over the pile of textbooks for anything I could eliminate straightaway. One bulky specimen, Critical Perspectives on Business Communication, was a clear candidate for the reject pile. At a dense seven hundred-plus pages of nine point type, it was certainly overkill for a lower-division class. I pulled it out of the stack and heaved it onto the chair behind me.
A loud crack made me turn around slowly. My chair wasn’t there. In its place was a pile of chair parts on the floor. Critical Perspectives on Business Communication was still resting on the seat, which was now on the floor. I grabbed one chair arm and pulled up. The arm came off in my hand.
Great. My office chair had just collapsed, and with the budget situation the way it was, it would probably take days to requisition another one. I’d go talk to Serena. Serena was one of the few people who knew how things really worked around here. She’d be able to help me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I stood at the entrance of the main office and fidgeted as I waited to talk to Serena. There was no point in going back to my office, with no place to sit. A garrulous young man in a baseball cap had gotten to Serena before me. I didn’t understand every word of the conversation, but I gathered the young man hoped to enroll in Rodge Cowper’s Intro to Business Management class in the fall. Serena was trying to explain that when a class was “full” that meant it was full. Not that there was one more spot just waiting for a squeaky wheel to roll in and claim it. She said it more nicely, of course.
People who thought the rules didn’t apply to them were the worst. Like when Stephen claimed to be exempt from the campus-wide smoking ban because he smoked clove cigarettes. This probably wasn’t the best time to ruminate on Stephen’s failings. We’d be having dinner in a few hours, and there was no point in my showing up grumpy.
My phone was charging in my office, so I had nothing to read as I waited. One copy of the summer course catalog lay on the counter, with OFFICE written diagonally across the cover in black permanent marker. In the event that was an insufficient deterrent to theft, the catalog was tethered to a pen holder with a dirty piece of string.
Just as the conversation sounded like it was wrapping up, the young man launched into a long story about a pig hunt.
I found myself studying the kid’s sleeve tattoos, a writhing lattice of alarmingly realistic giant centipedes. I hate centipedes. Have you ever pulled a load of clothes out of the dryer, and felt something drop onto your instep? And you look down to see a six inch centipede draped across your bare foot, its spiny legs twitching their last? Well I have, and I don’t recommend it.
At long last, the young man turned to leave.
“Eh, I get ’em now,” he said to Serena. “T’anks, Aunty.”
“No worries, Davison. Say hi to your dad for me.”
I watched him leave and then approached Serena’s desk.
“Aunty? He’s your nephew?”
Serena laughed. “Nah, he’s not my nephew. Plenty students call me Aunty.”
“They do? Why?”
“It’s a term of affection and respect,” she said.
“Huh. No one calls me Aunty.”
Serena smiled encouragingly.
“One day, Molly.”
“If I live that long. This has not been my best week. And it’s only Tuesday.”
“You stayed around here for the summer is why,” Serena said. “Most faculty just take off for the whole time, where no one can find ’em. Eh, terrible, first the thing in your class, and then what happened at the retreat. Maybe you should take few days off and rest, ah?”
“Well thank you for saying that, Serena. You’re the first person who’s expressed any sympathy.”
“Nah. Really?”
“Really. According to the Student Retention Office, everything is all my fault, for not being enough of a rock star in the classroom or something. I wonder what they’d do if we all decided to act like real rock stars in the classroom. Show up drunk, yell obscenities, and smash all the A/V equipment.”
“They gotta take the students’ side, no matter what,” Serena said. “It’s their job. Like the public defender’s office.”
“I know. And things could be a lot worse. At least I’m having a better week than Kent Lovely.”
“Hmm.” Serena shook her head. “Shame.”
I could see Bill Vogel in his office, behind his soundproof glass partition, talking on the phone. No one else was around. I lowered my voice to a whisper, just to be on the safe side.
“Serena, when you say shame, do you mean shame that Kent died? Or shame on him?”
Serena didn’t return my eye contact. Her mouth was a straight line.
“You play with fire,” she said, “you gonna get burned.”
“So who do you think burned him?”
“You okay, Molly? What’s that thing you holding?”
We were on to the next subject. No further discussion of Kent Lovely.
“What’s what thing?”
“The black thing you get in your hand.”
I realized that I was still holding the arm of my collapsed chair.
“Oh. This. That’s right. I need to requisition a new office chair. Mine just fell apart. How do I do that? Do I fill out a form, or do I just tell you, or…”
“Ohhh, I’m so sorry, Molly.” Serena scrunched her nose, as if imparting something distasteful. “Cannot.”
“That’s okay. Where do I need to go? Which office? Just point me in the right direction.”
Serena sighed. “No, what I’m saying is, no more money for office furniture.”
“What?”
“Not after the latest cuts, you know. You gotta buy ’em yourself. Outta pocket.”
“But—”
Bill Vogel was off the phone now. He was leaning back in his chair, his tasseled loafers resting on the koa wood desk. He was picking his teeth with a business card.
“Deans get a separate budget from us mere mortals,” Serena said, following my gaze. “I heard Marshall Dixon got a big donor on the hook, but till he comes through, things are gonna be tight. You know what some people do, they get one of those yoga balls to sit on. You know the kine?”
“You mean those things that look like giant beach balls? Really?”
“Oh, yah. Supposed to be really good for your back, and exercises your abs. I had a girlfriend lose two inches off her waist when she started using it. It’s like it makes you exercise all day, and you don’t even notice. Next thing you know, you all wiwi. Oh, that means skinny, Molly.”
I ran a thoughtful hand over my tummy. “Interesting. Do you know where I could buy a yoga ball in town?”
“Check Galimba’s Bargain Boyz. You know Bargain Boyz? Not all fancy like your mainland stores, but good prices. You can go right now, won’t be as crowded.”
“Yeah, I might as well.” I turned to leave. “No point hanging around my office without a chair to sit on.”
“Oh Molly, wait. You still need to tell me your community organization.”
I returned to the counter.
“My community organization?” I asked.
“Remember, everyone’s gotta join a community organization? I’m putting together the list. Only need one. Which one did you decide?”
“It’s not optional?”
“No, not optional. Dean Vogel promised the Chancellor we would get one hundred percent faculty involvement with our Friends in the Business Community.”
“So what do I need to do?”
“Just pi
ck one and join. Rotary, Business Boosters, Japanese Chamber, Podagee Chamber, whatevers. Molly, you Podagee, ah? Barda?”
“No. Barda’s not Portuguese. It’s an Albanian name. Which one of those groups has the least amount of unstructured social interaction? Making small talk with strangers stresses me out.”
“Probably Business Boosters,” Serena said. “You show up, sing the Business Boosters Song, listen to one guest speaker while you eat lunch, and leave. And you don’t have to have a member nominate you. Just tell ’em you’re from the College of Commerce. Easy.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it. Put me down for Business Boosters. Thanks.”
I pushed back from the counter and headed for the door.
“Eh, Molly. You cannot just tell me the name. You still gotta show up an’ join.”
“Okay,” I called back over my shoulder.
“Oh, and Molly, one more thing.”
I turned back reluctantly.
“They’re restarting the search for the Associate Dean of Learning Process Improvement. So you’re not done with the committee yet. You know the candidate didn’t pass the background check.”
I approached the counter again.
“Just between you and me,” I confided. “I didn’t vote for him. But as usual, mine was the minority opinion. So we’ll have to start up the committee again in the fall?”
“Cannot wait till then. You guys are gonna have to start meeting right away.”
“What? Come on. How can they make us meet during the summer? We’re not even getting paid for—”
“I got the information here.”
Serena handed me a printout of the scheduled meetings. I noticed one new name on the distribution list: Patrick Flanagan. He had been good company at the faculty retreat, and he appreciated my homemade Buzzword Bingo cards. Maybe meeting over the summer wouldn’t be so terrible after all.
“Thanks Serena.” I hurried out of the office before she could add anything else to my to-do list.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Emma and I sat in her hybrid, becalmed on Holua Street. Several cars ahead of us, a white hatchback was stopped, signaling its intention to turn left into the gas station. There was no break in oncoming traffic. With only one lane in each direction, there was nothing for us to do but wait.
“Are there no left-turn lanes on this side of the island?” I asked Emma. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.”
This probably wasn’t the best time to chat about Mahina’s transportation planning. Emma gripped the steering wheel and called down curses upon the driver of the white hatchback, the owner of the gas station, the city council, and finally Galimba’s Bargain Boyz, which had the nerve to be located on the other side of our taxing commute.
“That was some magnificent swearing,” I said, once we were moving again. “I think I heard Hawaiian, Japanese, and Yiddish.”
“Little Podagee too,” Emma said modestly.
“Impressive. So what are you getting at Galimba’s?”
“They got this coffee machine I want,” Emma said. “I tried ordering it online, but I couldn’t find anywhere that ships to Hawaii. Oh yeah, speaking of which… When we go inside, don’t act like you’re shopping.”
“What do you mean? What else would we be doing in a store, if not shopping?”
“Nah, nah, nah. What I mean is, not like you’re shopping for yourself. Act like you’re getting supplies for work. Don’t look like you’re having fun or nothing.”
“I am getting supplies for work. I have to buy a chair for my office. And I don’t anticipate it being much fun at all. Why?”
“’Cause. The old-timers hate it when they see professors walking around not working during the week.”
“But we we’re not even getting paid for the summer,” I said. “Why should we be working if we’re not getting paid?”
“Yeah, they don’t care. One time I went out for paddling practice in the afternoon, no more classes, already had my grading done, saw Mister Shiroma, old friend of my dad, yah? So he acts all friendly when he sees me. Two days later, guess what’s in the paper? Angry letter to the editor about how he saw one university professor out paddling in the middle of the day instead of teaching class, and how come we’re wasting their tax dollars? Of course Mister Shiroma doesn’t see all those times I’m up till midnight grading exams.”
“I get it. Look busy and unhappy. Reminds me of a summer internship I had.”
“If I really did have a bunch of free time? I’d write some letters to the editor about how old busybodies like Mister Shiroma are wasting my taxpayer dollars.”
Emma pulled into a parking spot in front of a corrugated metal building. A single white vinyl banner with black block lettering was the only indication this was a store and not a warehouse.
“Is this new?” I asked. “They still have a temporary sign.”
“Nah, that banner’s been up for years. Permitting process for a permanent sign is too humbug, that’s why.”
“It doesn’t look very inviting.”
“They got good deals though, Molly. When I was here last week, they had a bunch of those kine boneless bras you like. You should see if they still have some.”
“The ones with no underwire?” I picked up my bag and climbed out of the passenger seat. “I do like those.”
“The ones they had were all too small for me, but you’d probably fit ’em. What’d you need again?”
“An office chair.”
“Oh yah. Come.”
I followed Emma through the open bay door. The humid interior was a little cooler than the outdoors, which is to say still pretty warm. In a warehouse with thirty-foot ceilings and metal walls, air conditioning would have been an extravagance.
The bare-bones ambience hadn’t deterred Mahina’s frugal shoppers. The aisles were jammed with bargain hunters wielding Galimba’s oversized carts. Emma and I pushed through the crowd to the back of the store, where Galimba’s had a small display of office furniture.
“Aw, ugly,” Emma exclaimed.
“It does look kind of cheap. Look, you can see the seams from where the plastic was molded. Maybe I could sand it off.”
“Try sit,” Emma said.
The fabric was so rough the fibers pricked my skin through my clothes. Some kind of hard object embedded in the back cushion, possibly intended as “lumbar support,” poked my spine.
“That doesn’t look comfortable,” Emma said as I stood and rubbed my lower back. “Probably not worth the price, ah?”
I checked the price tag.
“It’s not even that cheap,” I said. “Serena told me I should just buy a yoga ball and use it for my office chair.”
“Not a bad idea, Molly. You could use the exercise.”
Emma helped me pick out a yoga ball from the clearance shelf in the sporting goods section. Then we wandered over to the lingerie bin and rummaged through the bras. Emma thought it would be helpful to hold the bras up to my chest to see whether they would fit. I swatted her hand away and told her to go look for her coffee maker.
Once I had picked out every bra they had in my size, I steered the giant shopping cart over to Galimba’s beverage section and loaded it up with a few bottles of wine and a half gallon of the cheapest vodka they had. As I made my way to the cash register, a floor display caught my attention. It was a stack of large boxes, crowned with a gleaming, stainless steel contraption. This turned out, on closer examination, to be a high tech coffee brewer. It was probably the one Emma was after. And I wanted it.
It would be perfect for my office. No more long walks up to the Dining Center for coffee so insipid you could see straight through to the bottom of the Styrofoam cup. No more getting stuck on campus after hours with my only coffee option being the Sputnik-era vending machine over in the Arts and Sciences building, the one where no matter which button you press, everything comes out tasting like a mixture of chicken soup and hot cocoa.
I lifted a box from the dis
play, and was about to place it into the cart, when I saw the label with the price. With a sigh of disappointment, I set the box back down. With my house payments, my student loans, and what I had to set aside for car maintenance, there was no way I could afford it.
Galimba’s only had one cash register open. This must be a way to keep costs down, I thought, like the informal signage and the nonexistent climate control. I pushed my cart to the end of the long line, and pulled my phone out to check my email as we inched along. I’d lost track of Emma, but I knew we’d rendezvous at the car. I saw nothing from Stephen confirming tonight’s dinner. No news, I assumed, was good news. Maybe he was out buying my birthday present. With any luck, it would be a coffee machine.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I was able to be productive even as I waited in the checkout line at Galimba’s Bargain Boyz. My phone was able to get enough of a signal inside to allow me to check my email. Even in the summer, my inbox needed frequent weeding. Every day I deleted several of the Student Retention Office’s cheery reminders that the only problem with higher education was lazy, arrogant faculty members who refused to use the latest tech baubles in class. Then there were the announcements for conferences I could never hope to attend (sure, I’ll jet off to Prague in the middle of the fall semester). In my frenzy of deleting I almost missed a message from one of my students:
Aloha Professor, I won’t be able to make it to class tomorrow. My brother was supposed to pick up my cat for me at the Humane Society, but he just told me he has a last minute guitar class to teach. I hope this does not effect my grade too much, since it is low already. Please let me know of anything important I miss. Mahalo, Tiffany Balusteros from business communication.
I’ve seen a lot of excuses for missing class, but the emergency guitar lesson was a new one. I wondered if Tiffany’s brother was picking up business from Jonah Nakamura’s former students. I typed a quick reply on my phone:
Dear Ms. Balusteros,
Everything we cover in class is important. Please check the course website for the assignment schedule, and best of luck with your cat.
