Before either of them gets the chance to speak, I pull away and fling my destroyed scarf at Mia. “Next time watch where you’re going!” I snarl, then stomp up the street, away from her and her friend.
“So was your phone still there?” her friend asks.
Two more steps and I’m out of hearing range, so I don’t know what Mia says, but I can feel both of their eyes on my retreating back. Doesn’t matter though—in twenty more feet I’ll be around the corner.
I toss my full coffee into the first trashcan-like object I see—might be for recyclables, might be a homeless guy’s cart, might be a public ashtray, I don’t care—then I pull my arms into my sleeves, glad I wore a loose jacket today. From there I shimmy them into my pants. My cock is hard just from looking at her defiant lips, just from briefly imagining fucking her against the wall. I try to rearrange it, but the only comfortable position I find is letting my dick stick out of the top of my pants. Luckily my coat is long enough to hide it.
Two blocks later my boner still isn’t gone, so instead of heading back to my dorm I head to Julian’s apartment. That fucker will still be with his grad group, but I don’t care. I’ve got to bust a nut somehow, and if it’s not going to be in Julian’s ass then it might as well be all over his sheets.
—
Monday, I have no reason to see Mia and I don’t. Tuesday, I look at her in class, but if she ever looks back at me, I miss it. Wednesday, I actually ask Julian if she went to discussion today.
He tells me she did and they both conducted themselves very professionally. I sort of want to smack him for the taunting smirk with which he says it, but instead I kiss him and fuck him inside the handicap stall of the men’s room. Not long after that, I decide I should check in with the Yale Undergraduate Philosophical Society at tonight’s seven o’clock meeting.
I arrive at 6:56 to discover that there are already half a dozen people there, including Mia and her suspicious-eyed friend, L-something. Although there are several open chairs I slip into the one next to her and pretend the significant dip in conversation has nothing to do with my presence. I’ve been to these meetings before, once or twice, during freshmen year…
“So, as an irregular attender, someone update me on tonight’s topic,” I casually demand of no one in particular. My well-practiced mix of authoritative and uninterested always does wonders in these situations, and in no time at all, some Jewish kid I had a class with last year pipes up.
“We’re discussing MacIntyre’s After Virtue. If you haven’t read it then you’re unlikely—”
The door opens and Theo walks in. I had forgotten he was a part of this club. How sloppy of me. It’s actually convenient though. I can let him think I’m here to impress him, which should only aid my ambitions.
“I’m sure I’ll catch on,” I say to the Jewish kid.
“Masters,” Theo chuckles, “fancy seeing you here.” He sits down beside me. “Nice to have someone to shake things up.”
“It’s now seven o’clock,” David Lin, the uptight president, snippily interrupts, “so let’s turn to the official topic of tonight’s Y.U.P.S. meeting, After Virtue. Now, to begin with, let’s agree not to dally in the realm of metaethics beyond MacIntyre’s focus.”
A mousy-faced, red-haired girl makes a little squeaking sound, like she might have objected but thought better of it. I don’t recognize her, which means she’s either not in the department or she’s a freshman. Nothing about her is interesting enough for me to care either way.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Mia diligently flip through her copy of the book. I can tell by how rigid her back is that my presence is bothering her.
“Mind if I read over your shoulder?” I ask, just loud enough for everyone else to hear, but quietly enough that it will seem like I didn’t mean for them to. Her teeth grit; she knows exactly what I’m doing. An especially wicked trickle of thrill runs through me. I like that I’m affecting her so much.
“Now, now, Dave,” Theo interrupts, easily taking over the room, “that’s really putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think?”
Although David’s lips pucker sourly, he’s smart enough not to stand up to Theo—you don’t have to be a member of the Brotherhood to know that Theo is a VIP on campus.
“I mean,” Theo continues, “to jump right into it, Nietzsche’s assertions depend so thoroughly on a definition of the Will that such a definition must be discussed. We must examine the word ‘lineage’—”
“That’s irrelevant,” Mia interrupts, surprising me, and, judging by the glances going around the table, everyone else. However, she doesn’t seem to notice or care. She looks right at Theo, her voice neutral, rational, almost robotic, like she’s looking at a mathematical equation floating in front of her and simply reading it. “Nietzsche’s statements are not direct refutations of Aristotle’s, nor are they in opposition. MacIntyre doesn’t address it. Maybe he didn’t see it—”
Another wave of exchanged glances, some amused and curious, but most are offended and appalled—it takes a lot of nerve to say something like that about a well-respected author like Alasdair MacIntyre. Her friend is looking at her like they’ve already had this conversation twelve times but she still can’t believe Mia is making such claims in front of the Y.U.P.S. I sort of wish I had read the book so I knew exactly what they were talking about.
“—but his entire premise, that these two philosophers are even proposing incompatible ethical theories, hinges on what Nietzsche believed the source of the Will to be, not its definition.” With this she looks pointedly at Theo. “Nietzsche believes the Will is irrational because man cannot cite an empirical origin of the Will. Aristotle can. Virtue ethics clearly believes the Will to be rational. Therefore, MacIntyre’s question is really about whether or not the Will is rational—if it is, then, according to MacIntyre, the virtue ethicists have the final say on morality. If it is not, then Nietzsche does.”
“Your point supposes that the Will does indeed exist,” Theo rebuts, his eyes sharp with forced neutrality.
I wonder what he’s really thinking. He’s giving away little micro-indicators that he’s bothered by what she’s said, or maybe just that she interrupted him.
“The Will is an English phrase that exists to symbolically describe an intangible, universal phenomenon of how man experiences himself,” Mia argues. “It does exist, even if only because we experience it as existing. The problem is communicating exactly what we mean by it.”
“Precisely.” Theo smiles condescendingly. “You’ve made my point for me. So—”
“No, your point was that Nietzsche misinterpreting Aristotle related to his use of the phrase the Will. Mine is that Nietzsche himself didn’t understand virtue ethics, was instead making his entire argument in rebellion against the rule-based ethics that he inherited from Enlightenment-era ethicists like Kant and Hume, and that in actuality the majority of his philosophical works suggest he actually was in alignment with the thinking of Aristotle and other virtue ethicists, but his inability to conceive of intangible aspects of the human experience as having a logic system, and thus being rational, is what caused him, and MacIntyre, to fail in seeing the similarity.”
“You can’t really think that MacIntyre would fail to see such an obvious flaw if there was one?” David asks, aghast.
“He must have, because he didn’t address it anywhere in the book,” Mia matter-of-factly replies.
David visibly flusters and flat-out ignores what she’s said. “Your entire argument hinges upon the existence of the Will, just like Theo was saying.”
“Do you really want to debate whether or not the Will exists?” Mia sighs. “We will spend the entire meeting on that, argue into oblivion, come to no agreed conclusion, and it will all be pointless because, no matter what we in the proverbial ivory tower might like to argue, the Will exists as a fundamental construct of the experience of Self across human cultures.”
“Actually,” the mousy redhead sque
aks, looking as shocked that she’s talking as everyone else does, “there are several tribal cultures that don’t have any words that express the concept of Self. So—so—so,” she rushes, staring at her lap, “so, they technically can’t experience the Will, even if it exists, as a construct of Self, only as a construct of group.”
“Oh God,” groans the Jewish kid, “who let the Anthro Department in?” He looks around for support—clearly he thinks he’s been funny. He gets a few nods, but not from anyone who matters.
The girl blushes in response and somehow manages to curl her neck even farther in. Who knew these meetings could be so vicious? To an outsider, this would seem perfectly polite and civilized, but as someone who’s been soaking in the culture of the Philosophy Department for three years, it’s obvious a battle is brewing. How fun.
“That’s a good point,” Mia says to the girl, smiling supportively at her. Then she turns to the Jewish kid and says, “The humanities all inform upon each other. Don’t bash Anthro. You’re only making yourself look bad.”
A tiny snigger escapes from Chase Locke, causing Theo to scowl. I just came here to bother Mia, but look at all the interesting data I’m gathering. Really, a good choice on my part.
“Anyway,” Mia says, “even if the Will is experienced as the Will of the group, the Will of the group is still being experienced, and acted upon, by the individual. Thus, the individual does experience the Will.”
I wish I’d sat across from her instead of next to her so that I could read her face better. She has clearly taken an unpopular position, but she’s handling it with grace and guts. She isn’t the least bit flustered. She answers every objection without showing any sign that she’s taking a lick of it personally. She’s like a Vulcan. Up until this moment, I never could have imagined that would be a turn-on for me—but, it turns out, it is.
“How can acting upon the Will of the group ever be seen as ethical by a virtuist? You’ve taken us away from both Aristotle and Nietzsche,” Theo dismisses, giving her another condescending smile. “The real matter at hand is, is the Will rational? And, if so, is MacIntyre right, that only virtue ethics can thereafter be logically permissible?”
I can tell by the little quirk at the edge of Mia’s eyebrow that she is not only unimpressed by him, but probably thinking the same thing I am—he simply didn’t understand her point. Which is too bad, because she is making a good point. Why is she about to let it go?
“Hold on a second,” I drawl, excited to poke the fire before they let it go out. “I think Winters has a point. How can we even talk about whether or not the Will is rational without determining the source of the will?”
Glances, glances, glances. David Lin is looking at Theo for an indicator of how he’s interpreting my question—good David, respecting the actual hierarchy. Theo’s eyes slide from me to Mia and back. It is very quick, but I can see him doing the math. It might work in my favor for him to assume I’m here just to get into her pants. That way I can disagree with him all I want but he’ll think it’s for pussy and therefore be unlikely to take it personally or count it against me. I suppose that, primarily, it is for pussy, but I do actually think this is a question of interest.
“How do we determine the source of the Will?” pipes up the Jewish kid. Sophomore. Clearly he doesn’t understand the democratic setup of this whole thing is just a facade.
“We only can if we adhere to Nietzsche’s definition,” Theo answers. “Does anyone think differently?”
“I think that’s going too far,” I reply. “I think we’re stuck on the Korzybski issue. Do we really understand exactly what MacIntyre, or Nietzsche or Aristotle for that matter, intended to convey? Or are we interpreting their words incorrectly? I personally can think of many different ways I would define what I experience as Will, and they all have a different source.”
Theo gives me a knowing smirk. I suppose what I just said could sound like a thinking-with-my-dick statement. “Speaking of Korzybski,” he smoothly says, “please explain exactly how you’re interpreting Mia’s choice of words first. If we don’t start working the linguistics backward now, who knows how far down the rabbit hole of initial misunderstanding we might go.”
“Winters is pointing out that the source of the Will is the pin upon which MacIntyre’s entire premise hangs. If the source of the Will can be determined rational, then according to MacIntyre, virtue ethics is the only rational morality; if it is determined irrational, Nietzsche was right all the long. You know though, I think that sort of ‘either/or’ thinking is, not only very limiting, but is itself a logical flaw.”
People perk up, ready to bristle. Mia has actually turned her body toward me. Even with just the quickest of glances, I can tell she’s surprised by me. Perhaps I’m impressing her. How delightful. This really is fun. I think I’m going to come next week too. And now, to really send them into a frenzy:
“Maybe the religious philosophers are correct,” I muse, “and morality exists independent of humanity. If that’s the case, then definitions of the Will or debates about its source are irrelevant to the argument of morality.”
“You’re just crossing into the classic Phaedo conundrum,” Mia’s friend pipes up.
“Quite right, Leanne,” Theo adds. “Which, is useless given our goal is purely to discuss the argument MacIntyre makes.”
“What’s the point in discussing it if it’s so obviously logically flawed?” I retort.
I can tell by the way David’s face flushes that I’ve just offended his sensibilities deeply, but he bites his tongue. As if to add frosting to my cake, Chase responds with the least scholarly reasoning possible:
“Shiffrin is teaching a class on it next year.” Chase shrugs. “Might be practical to get all the dumb arguments worked out before everyone takes it.”
David clears his throat. “We need to get back on topic. Is—”
“We are on topic,” both Mia and I say at exactly the same time. My eyes slide and for the first time actually meet hers. She looks away fast, and I swear—I swear—I see her cheeks go just a little red.
I want to bang her on this table. I’ll have to talk to Julian and start making plans for next Wednesday. Finding ways to screw Mia Winters is, apparently, becoming my new hobby.
“We are not on topic,” David insists. “The topic is specifically examining the argument that MacIntyre makes. He does not discuss the Phaedo conundrum. He makes his views on any arguments that relate morality to the possibility of a god or gods clear. He is specifically—”
“He is specifically limiting his argument to Nietzsche versus Aristotle. Yes.” Mia sighs. “However, he does so because he believes he has logically refuted all other theories, but his logic system is clearly virtue ethicist. If you step outside of that logic system, then the refutations upon which his ‘one or the other’ argument depends become invalid and, therefore, he’s not really presenting a solid argument. His argument depends upon the reader agreeing with his logic system. So, although this was not my original point, and yes, it is not in the direction you want us to go, it is pointless to discuss MacIntyre’s argument without acknowledging the flaws in his premise.”
“Not to be too on the nose,” I add, “but technically all communication depends upon the preset boundary condition of a shared logic system.”
David actually groans. “Devolving into philosophy of language is—”
“Oh stop being so stuffy, Dave,” Theo cuts in. “This is the nature of debate. Nothing is ever really irrelevant. If you can’t see how something connects then you should ask yourself why, rather than insisting the rest of us, who see the connection, are wrong.”
— Mia —
I know where this is going—the same place all discussions in Y.U.P.S. go: In circles. This is the nature of doing philosophy out loud instead of on paper. Considering half the people in this room, including Leanne and David, are majoring in philosophy because they plan on continuing to law school, circular arguing is probably very
useful for them. I, however, am a philosophy major because I can’t help but ask these questions and then overthink them. I’d actually like to get somewhere in these discussions, but everyone is always on a slightly different page, or driven by different motives, and so we never do.
I turn my attention back to my notebook and allow my hand to doodle around the edge. Circles turn into eyes, which turn into faces, which accidentally look too much like the boy sitting next to me. I quickly scribble curls and shade them dark to cover for my subconscious slip, but then I start to see Julian in them, which is almost as bad. Maybe if I just make the hair a lot longer and add boobs—who cares if it looks like I’m drawing a transvestite? All I care about is that I don’t accidentally give Tristan reason to think I’m thinking about him.
I know he came tonight just to get under my skin, and it sucks that he’s actually made several intelligent points. It’s not that I don’t know he’s smart, at least academically. It’s just that I’m usually not reminded of it. I’m usually not sitting next to him, smelling his deodorant—or aftershave or whatever it is that is tugging at my senses and tempting me to lean closer so I can get more of it—while he’s being smart. It’s just that I haven’t been forced to remember that he’s smart since before I knew what he looked and felt like naked.
Out of the corner of my eye I see flicking. I glance just far enough to see that he’s twirling a pen between his fingers. I pull my hand to the other end of my paper and try to write something that is relevant to what is being talked about, but I’ve already lost track of the conversation.
Leanne, Chase, and the sophomore, Jacob, are now dominating it. The freshman—Becca, I think—looks like she’s trying really hard to follow everything that is happening, and I feel bad for her. David looks disgruntled. Theo looks amused. And I refuse to look at Tristan.
His hand continues to invade my peripheral vision, and then it actually crosses onto my paper. I nearly snatch my notebook away but his pen is poised to write, and I hesitate just long enough to become curious about what he’s going to write. Probably something dumb.
Blackmail (Skeleton Key Book 1) Page 7
