Lawrence asked, “So, if they don’t have #TeamFollowBack in their bios does that mean they are legit?”
“Not exactly. I’d like to talk about lists and something I’ve found that I think is interesting. I’ve been checking the ratio of how many times a person is ‘listed’ and dividing it by the number of ‘followers.’ When I look at someone who I suspect is a fake, their ratio is between one to two percent. Conversely, the people whom I’ve gotten to know, the ones with a lot of followers but who also are willing to have discussions, have a ratio greater than five percent.”
Wen asked, “So, is your point that one should be careful about who they follow?”
“Yes and, to a lesser extent, who they allow to follow them.”
Kurt asked, “Why does it matter if they are following you?”
“It’s simple. If I let 100 worthless people follow me, knowing that they aren’t going to be engaging or help me with my goals in any way, then they are of no value and are simply ruining my listed:follower ratio.”
“Yes, but why does the ratio matter if you are the only one who looks at it?” Lawrence asked.
“That is an exceptionally reasonable and logical question and will not be tolerated.”
Lawrence laughed.
“In truth, it doesn’t matter unless one wants to have an accurate understanding of their own social platform. If one wants to be honest with themselves and, admittedly, who really wants that, but if they did, then it is our responsibility to show the students the best way to manage their platforms.”
Wen was smiling broadly and taking notes.
“Do you have something to add?”
“It seems like I just got done listening to you fight against technology. Look at you now.”
“Who knew I could adapt to this century? Okay, that is all I have for today. Anyone else have something we need to discuss?”
Lawrence said, “Saturday I’m having a massive party for homecoming. You are all invited, even you, Dr. Byrne.”
Arthur said, “It would be grotesquely inappropriate for me to attend such a function. Shall I bring some dip...possibly a bit of brie?”
Lawrence chuckled and said, “We’re good, thanks.”
Arthur said, “Okay, I think that is all. Keep up the good work.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
“Yes, do come in, Tricia.” Mary said.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I understand you’ve applied for one of the open writer positions at the student paper?”
“I think I would learn a lot from the experience,” Tricia said.
“I’m sure you would. Of course, there are quite a few applicants. Just over a hundred and only three spots.”
“I tried last year, too, but they hired Jackie. I have to admit she’s done a good job. Her piece on the animal shelter was great.”
“Tell me, why do you think you would make a good investigative journalist?”
“I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. I worked at my high school paper and uncovered a scandal involving our librarian. I found the proof that she was skimming from the book-buying budget. It took a lot of digging, but I got her.”
“I’m impressed,” Mary said. She stood and looked out her office window. “Of course, high school is different than working for a college paper, especially one so fine as ours. I’ve read your writing sample. It was solid, but what I would like to know is how you would handle an assignment.” Mary returned to her desk.
“What if you gave me one as a test? I’m sure I could win you over.”
Mary smiled and said, “That is an interesting suggestion. An assignment as a test, yes, that would demonstrate your abilities. Let me think for a moment.”
“I could investigate that restaurant downtown; I’ve heard they might be using some questionable suppliers.”
“A fine idea, but I’m not sure that relates enough to campus life. What if...”
“I can do it!”
“You haven’t heard my idea, but I love the enthusiasm.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I have some concerns about a professor.”
“What sort of concerns?”
“I’ve heard rumors that he may be fraternizing with students in a way that is neither professional nor acceptable. If this is true, it is the sort of thing that would potentially damage our sterling reputation. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
“No! Who is it?”
“Dr. Arthur Byrne. Do you know him?”
There was a pause. Tricia said, “Yes, I’ve heard of him but never had him for a class. There was an article about him in the paper this week. He’s very popular.”
“Popular or not, do we want to ignore his behavior?”
“I guess not. You want me to look into it?”
“I’ve been told he spends a lot of time in that filthy bar Edgar’s Pit. Do you know it?”
“Uhm...yes.”
“Of course, we would need proof. Any accusations of immoral behavior would need to be ironclad, you understand.”
Tricia said, “I’m not sure. What do you want me to do?”
“Oh, nothing like that, dear, please, I want you to be a reporter. Investigate and see if he is crossing any lines like people say. Do you have a camera on your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Are you up for the challenge?”
“Sure, I guess so.”
“I have every faith that you will do a remarkable job and will make an excellent reporter,” Mary said, standing and escorting Tricia to the door.
Mary returned to her desk and dialed. “This is Mary. Is President Grosvenor available?”
A moment later he answered, “Mary, do you have anything interesting to report?”
“The young lady I thought might be perfect is on board.”
“When do you think you’ll have something?”
“It’s Wednesday, so I would guess that by either Friday or Saturday she should be able to get us what we need.”
“Keep me posted,” he said and hung up.
***
“Hey, what’s up?” Arthur said, putting his phone on speaker.
“I just got out of class and was thinking I might head down to the Pit. What are you up to?”
“Just tweeting, liking, and chatting on G+; you know, living the dream.”
“Are you tweeting now? I can hear you typing.”
“I’m able to multi-task, and yes.”
Eric laughed and said, “Okay, so I just brought up Twitter. Are you having a conversation about Joseph Heller with a guinea pig?”
“We both agree that Major Major Major Major was one of best characters in the history of literary fiction. He is a very well-read guinea pig.”
“I’m sure. What do you say about the Pit?”
Arthur said, “Sure, why not. Are you at your office?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll mosey on over to the Pit.”
“Mosey?”
“I may have been tweeting with a guy from Texas earlier.”
“And he used mosey?”
“No, but I like to think he might given the chance.”
“I’ll order you a sarsaparilla.”
Arthur hit “End” on his phone, tweeted, “Later, got to run,” to the guinea pig, and gave a quick check to make sure Maltese’s bowl had food.
The leaves were turning, and the campus looked postcard-worthy. Arthur, wearing a light jacket, stopped to chat with a couple of students. Somewhere along the way, he had found peace. There was still plenty of things to get his dander up, but Arthur had let go of the ghosts that had kept him miserable for the last ten years.
Eric waved from a table and said, “They didn’t have a sarsaparilla, so I got you a beer.”
“Thanks,” Arthur said, looking around. “Where’s Emily?”
“She had papers to grade.”
“Doesn’t she have minions for that?”
“That’
s what I said, but she said she wanted to do it.”
“What sort of crazy woman are you dating?”
“I’m not really sure about that.”
“You should get her checked by a trained professional.”
“Oh, not that. The dating part.”
“Trouble in Ericdise?”
Eric gave a non-committal grunt and took a drink of beer.
“What’s wrong, little buckaroo?”
“I miss the days when you were the grumpy, old man, and I was the optimist. Any chance of you going back to bitter?”
“There is always a chance.”
“Speaking of amor.”
“Were we? I was trying to steer the conversation to sex.”
“Okay, sex then. What’s the deal with that TA of yours?”
“Lawrence? He’s really not my type.”
“The hot, little Asian TA that bosses you around.”
“Lou?”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
“Her name is Wen.”
“Yes, that’s her. Usually by this point in the semester you’ve woven your brooding spell. How about Kristen from a few years back? She was disturbingly hot.”
“Nothing to tell. I guess I’ve been too busy.”
“Too busy. That is a lame excuse. How am I supposed to live vicariously through you with that sort of attitude?”
“I think I’ve noticed her skirts are getting shorter the last few weeks.”
“Keep your eyes off Wen’s skirts.”
“Ha! I knew it.”
“You know nothing. She’s a nice kid.”
Eric took a sip of beer and said, “She’s no kid. If I may quote one of the great thinkers of this century or any other, ‘She’s hotter than a hot tamale in hot pants on a hot plate in Hotlanta.’”
“That was one of my better quotes. She does have a nice figure.”
“You disgust me with your new grown-up attitude.”
Arthur laughed and said, “I’m sure it’s just a phase. Emily is a bit of a knockout, too. Maybe I’ll spend some time living vicariously through your wild exploits.”
“I need another beer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The weekend arrived along with the parents and alumni.
“Autumn has such a comforting smell,” Arthur said as he and Emily walked along towards the stadium.
Emily asked, “Now who are we tailgating with?”
“Some of the grad students your boy-toy Eric works with. I’m sure he’s wondering where we are,” Arthur said.
“I’m sorry. I had to finish the potato salad. And I wouldn’t call him that.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry it for a while?”
“I’m fine but thanks.”
“What was I saying? I was waxing poetic and working toward pretentious, if I recall. Oh, yes, the smell of a fine, fall football Saturday. Spring is such a girl. She gets credit for love, hope, renewal, and the dream of what might be. Summer is all, ‘Hey dude, it’s warm; let’s party.’ It’s truly the fraternity brother of the four seasons. Fall, to me, seems like the bad-ass who is about to hop on his Harley and drive off into the sunset because he’s not going to listen to that bitch winter go on and on about how nobody likes her and the snow drifts make her look fat.”
“I think you missed poetic, wide right, so you’ll be hard pressed to make pretentious this half.”
“You just watch. It will take less than two beers and a hotdog before one of those little grad students wades into the deep end of literature.”
“What will you do then?”
“I will unleash a snarkstorm of pretentiousness that will blind at first then explode into a mockalanche that crushes their spirits.”
“Is that why you stopped writing? Because you couldn’t refrain from making up words?”
“I was severely injured when a group of grammar Nazis revoked my dictionary and thesaurus in an early morning raid. Word had spread that I was making unauthorized additions in the margins. That sort of thing is frowned upon in polite society. I was branded with a puce letter ‘r.’”
“What does the ‘r’ stand for?”
“‘Riter’...it is so shameful. Anyway, they pummeled and buffeted me about the pate, figuratively, while they spoke in tongues...tongues that always ended a sentence with a preposition. Finally, they took my brand new Moleskin and cast it asunder before mine eyes, and it was done. Telling tales with words came to me nevermore.”
“That’s a sad story...as in deplorably bad.”
“I see they haven’t come for your dictionary.”
“No.”
“There’s Eric. I’ll have to finish the rest of the story later; it’s in iambic pentameter.”
Emily waved with her non-potato salad holding hand.
***
Arthur had a burger and one beer. He listened to other people tell their stories and didn’t, for possibly the first time in his life, have the uncontrollable urge to cast aspersions. He was, to use a word that few ever associated with Dr. Byrne, polite.
The grilling was being handled masterfully by Eric. Footballs were tossed about, and numerous games of baggo added to the festive air. The twelve o’clock kickoff approached. When they heard the band playing the school’s fight song, a sea of red made its way to the stadium.
The first quarter saw them jump to a 7-3 lead, but a turnover just after the start of the second quarter led to a touchdown for the opponents from Down South. It was tradition not to say their arch-rival’s name as it was considered profane. At the half, the team that would not be mentioned led 13 – 7. Arthur was concerned.
Eric, who sat between Arthur and Emily, said, “Our defense is doing fine, but what happened to our passing game?”
“It’s like the quarterback is afraid. His timing has been terrible. How many times has he thrown the ball behind a wide-open man?”
“Six.”
“Exactly! He couldn’t complete a pass in a sobriety-free sorority.”
Emily leaned forward and said, “Okay, that was clever. Much better than before.”
Eric asked, “Before?”
“Yes. On the walk over he was trying to make up a story. It was dreadful.”
Arthur said, “It was only dreadful because you didn’t appreciate the nuance of my genius.”
Eric shook his head and patted Emily on the knee. “I’m sorry you had to endure that.”
Arthur said, “Thank you. It was nearly unbearable having such a remarkable bit of off the cuff storytelling fall on blonde ears.”
Emily said, “First off, I’m a brunette...”
“You’re a metaphorical blonde.”
Emily lost her train of thought and let a giggle slip. “Okay, ‘metaphorical blonde.’ That was pretty good.”
Arthur got up and said, “I’m off for beer. It’s my turn to buy.” He needed to get away from third wheeldom.
A few former students stopped to chat. One introduced her husband who seemed like a nice fellow. Arthur made small talk but was thinking about the late-night tutoring he had provided during her senior year. She was an eager student and interested in literature. Ah, good times.
He missed the second-half kickoff and the 98-yard return for a touchdown. Three minutes later, Arthur nearly spilled his beer when the redshirt freshman corner intercepted a tipped ball and took it to the house.
The team from Down South fell apart after that. The final score was 35 – 13. Arthur, who had been caught up in the game, didn’t notice that wheels one and two had gotten somewhat icy towards one another.
He bid them adieu in a really bad French accent and went home to take a nap. Seeing Kimberly or Kristen - or was it Crystal? - had put him in a mood to celebrate the win, but a post-game, pre-Lawrence-party battery recharge was needed.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Arthur put on some sweats and almost climbed into bed for a post-game nap. He instead went out and looked at his typewriter with the one wo
rd “Monday” that had been trying to get him to write all semester. He pulled the page out and set it aside.
On a fresh sheet he typed, “She was a metaphorical blonde, but she was also much more than most people could see.”
The buzz from the tailgating hadn’t worn off. He didn’t like the first line. It was okay, though; he would fix it later. His fingers pounded the typewriter with reckless abandon. Maltese hopped up on the table and laid down to watch Arthur work. Eventually, Maltese decided it wasn’t very exciting and drifted off, flicking his tail whenever Arthur yanked a page out of the carriage.
Arthur had no idea where he was going with the story. Each paragraph seemed to give a clue as to what was next. A thought would become words and they would lead him down the path. He wasn’t writing to impress; he was just writing.
His phone rang from underneath the cat. Maltese didn’t appreciate it at all and left to find a better spot for slumber. “Hey, Wen, what’s up?”
“Did you go to the game?”
“I did. It was awesome. I’m writing. I’ve got to go.”
“Really? Are you coming to Lawrence’s party?”
“Maybe. Call me later,” he said and hung up.
Without so much as a pause he started right back up. He could see it all in his beer-addled mind. It only needed to be written down. Arthur was like a court reporter. He hoped the story would continue to be interesting.
The phone rang again. Arthur answered, “Eric, I’m writing. Call me later.”
“I know. Wen just...”
Arthur ended the call. His characters had left the restaurant and were getting on a trolley, which was surprising since Arthur had no idea they were in San Francisco until that moment. He decided they needed heavier clothing. The detail made him stop because there hadn’t been any discussion about what they were wearing. Arthur started to obsess about hats.
He stopped and stood up. Arthur really wanted the woman to be wearing a bowler. “The Woman in the Bowler Hat” struck him as a good title. Why would she be wearing such a hat, though? It didn’t make sense. He had almost written himself into a corner. Maybe a nice knit hat would be cute?
The man had a baseball hat on. It fit snugly and kept his head warm, but she was there, in his mind, wearing that bowler. It looked really cute on her, but it just didn’t make any sense. Maybe she was an actress? Arthur asked. She wasn’t.
Underwood, Scotch, and Wry Page 9
