Chapter 4

 

 

September

 

“BECAUSE RESTATING the prompt isn’t a thesis, Malcolm. A thesis needs to make a claim. It tells the reader what you’ll spend the rest of the paper demonstrating. Remember?”

Stab, throttle, smash, annihilate, disembowel. I try to calm myself down by listing words that describe what I’d like to do to Malcolm. Preppy, entitled, slickly handsome Malcolm. Raze, liquefy, obliterate, eviscerate, pulverize, gut. Malcolm is the sixth student to come to my Friday afternoon office hours to argue about his grade on the first short paper for my Intro to American Literature class. All six complaining students missed class the day I assigned the papers and explained very clearly what a thesis was. All six complaining students turned in papers with no thesis statements.

“But you never said we needed to make a claim,” Malcolm says, scanning his paper. “I mean, like, if I’d known that was a requirement, then I totally could have done it.”

“Well,” I say, “this assignment is called ‘Advancing a Claim.’ I’d suggest, in the future, that you draft your papers with the assignment sheet in front of you. And I’d suggest making sure you find out what you miss on days when you aren’t in class. Anything else I can do for you?”

“I mean, I basically made a claim. It’s right here.”

“As I mentioned, this is a restatement of the prompt I gave you in class, so it can’t be your claim.”

“But it’s totally a claim.”

“It’s a question, Malcolm. My question. I wouldn’t really assign a paper where you were supposed to make a claim I already made on the assignment sheet, would I?”

“How am I supposed to know what you’d do?” Malcolm says, sounding sincerely confused. But it’s clear that his confusion masks aggression. He disliked me on sight.

“Look, I’ll give you the same opportunity I gave your classmates who were unhappy with their paper grades. If you’d like to rewrite the paper and give it to me next week, I’ll regrade it with a cap at a B-. It’s up to you.”

“So I can’t get higher than a B-? No way, man!” Ooh, Malcolm’s pissed now. I admit, I get a little bit of a rush out of staying perfectly calm when I know that a student would be punching me in the face if we were at a bar instead of across a desk from one another.

“Well, as of now, this is a D paper. Whether you choose to keep that grade or try the assignment again is completely up to you.”

Malcolm gathers his things up angrily, sliding his chair back with a loud scrape on the old hardwood floor.

“Yeah, fine, next week, thanks,” he mumbles, and jerks his backpack over his shoulder. He pulls my office door shut behind him. Hard. It’s an old building, and, as the new kid, I clearly got stuck in the office that either: (a) was recently cleared out when some faculty member who never used it died, or (b) is a gateway to the fires of hell. As such, when Malcolm slams the door, a crack peels open in the ceiling drywall from the corner of the door to the rickety light fixture hanging precariously from the ceiling three feet away. The light fixture droops from the drywall and hangs cockeyed from a cluster of wires.

“Have a nice weekend,” I mutter.

Then, as I watch, the light fixture falls to the floor in a gunshot of dented tin, frosted glass, and plaster dust.

Great.

 

 

THANK GOD it’s the end of the week. After I call maintenance at the college and leave them a message about the disaster that my office has become, I order pizza and call Ginger. She’s always in the shop on Friday nights but only works by appointment because she doesn’t want to be implicated in people’s stupid, drunken mistakes. After some sorority girl’s mom came into the shop, dragging her daughter by the wrist, to ask why Ginger gave her daughter a tattoo of a cupcake on her ass with the words “sweet to the last lick” curling in a banner underneath, and didn’t respond well to Ginger’s assurance that the girl was very much of legal age to get a tattoo and quite insistent on this one in particular, Ginger stopped participating in Friday night walk-ins, leaving the easy cash to her employees. She answers on the first ring.

“Have you seen him again?” she says.

“Dude, come on,” I say. She’s asked me this every time we’ve spoken since I told her about running into him—well, about Marilyn running into me.

“Sorry, sweet cheeks. I’m just having a hell of a dry spell in the city of what is clearly exclusively brotherly love and I need a little pick me up.”

“I’m not holding my breath, Ginge. Like I told you, he didn’t even want my phone number. I think maybe he just saw it as a onetime thing.”

“Come on. There are, like, thirty-seven people in your town. It’s totally inevitable. Besides, he knows where you work. I think he could find you if he were trying.”

Well, she’s right about that.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “I just mean that he’s obviously into you, so I don’t get why he’s playing it so cool.”

“Changing the subject for the millionth time…. What’s new back home?”

“Oh, the yuzh: you’ve missed a bunch of good shows, everyone always asks where you are, everyone else in this city sucks, and SEPTA workers are on strike, so I can’t take the subway and even though I totally support their cause—go, union!—it’s basically ruining my life. Oh! And your fucking brother came into the shop yesterday.”

“Brian?” Brian is the only one of my brothers I could see getting a tattoo.

“No, Colin.”

“What? What did he want?”

“Not what did he want—what did he want covered up?”

“No!”

“Pumpkin, were you aware that your idiotic, gay-bashing, misogynist brother had a tramp stamp?”

“Impossible.”

“Of a butterfly.”

“No.”

“Swear to god! His story was that his girlfriend made him get it last year and now they broke up and he wanted me to cover it up with a vintage car.” She says “story” and “girlfriend” like they have enormous air quotes around them.

“Oh my fucking god, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“He swore me to secrecy.”

“Yeah, right. So, did you do it?”

“I told him that a tattoo of a car just above his ass would really give people the wrong idea about what kind of a lady he was. He got all offended and left. I guess I forgot what a total misogynist he is for, like, five seconds.” I laugh. “Oops!” she says in a baby voice that is not at all sorry.

 

 

I GET up early the next morning, eager to get to my office and get my course prep for the next few weeks done so that I don’t have to work tomorrow. I hate Sundays. They’re depressing enough without having to work on them. Besides, structural issues aside, I’ve grown to really like my office. I’ve never had one before. In grad school I’d work at the library or in a coffee shop. And I was always trying to get reading done behind the bar at work. Consequently, I’d have to air out the books before I returned them to the library because they always ended up dotted with booze. Even in my apartment in Philly, I just worked at the kitchen table. The place was really only a couch, a bed, a bathroom, and a kitchenette anyway. It’s nice to have a place to work that’s just mine (and isn’t two feet from a toilet). And, interesting as it always was to read Emily Brontë or Schopenhauer against a backdrop of tipsy concertgoers, it was pretty hard to concentrate.

As I walk to Sludge to get a coffee, the early morning air has a bit of a chill. It’ll be hot again by noon, but for now I can almost pretend I’m home, walking out to the middle of the Ben Franklin Bridge and watching the sunlight crest the crisp wavelets of the Delaware. Everything’s still in bloom, so the early morning sun filters through the trees lining the streets.

I like Sludge’s brown and white striped awning and its photographs of used coffee grounds on the brick walls. It’s early enough that Marjorie—the owner of Sludge, as I learned the first time I stumbled in fiending for coffee and was treated to a twenty-minute introduction in addition—is behind the counter. She smiles broadly at me, but her smile fades when she looks down to my arms.

“Hmm, Daniel, honey, I don’t understand why you kids do that to yourselves.” She’s looking at my tattoos. I guess I’ve only seen her when I was dressed to teach, wearing long sleeves. I don’t get some people’s assumption that you want to hear their opinion of your personal choices. And they say it like it’s not rude. I would never say, “Hey, Marjorie, I hate the way you dress,” or, “Oh, Marjorie, you should really have plastic surgery, because your nose would be so much better another way.”

“You’re such a handsome boy. Why would you want to look like a hoodlum?”

“Well, I actually am a hoodlum, Marjorie, so I was required to get them,” I say with what I hope isn’t too annoyed of a smile. “Can I have an egg sandwich and a triple shot in a large coffee to go?” I add, before she can comment.

“How on earth can you drink that much caffeine?” Marjorie asks.

“It’s what all the hoodlums drink,” I say, shrugging, and she turns away to make my drink, shaking her head.

The walk to campus only takes about fifteen minutes. Sleeping Bear College is a hodgepodge of old and new buildings. It was built on land that originally had a large estate and a smaller farmhouse. When they opened the college, they built a number of new brick buildings to house the math and science departments, one that looks kind of like a greenhouse for the art department, and, at the very back of campus, farthest from my apartment, a blocky brick monstrosity to house the library. The sidewalks connecting the buildings are clean and they must pay someone a hell of a lot of money to landscape, because there are flowers everywhere. During the week, students congregate on wooden benches around campus and eat lunch under the trees that dot the grass, which must have been original to the property because they look too old to have been planted when the college opened.

The estate was turned into the student center and the farmhouse into Snyder Hall, where the humanities classrooms are on the first and second floors and our offices are on the third. It’s a cool building from the outside—weathered wood and a huge front porch where students hang out between classes. In fact, it reminds me more of a Cracker Barrel restaurant than any academic building I’ve ever seen. Still, it’s got a relaxed vibe that I like. Inside, though, it’s rickety and worn, especially the offices.

It’s locked on the weekends, so I don’t have to worry about running into students—another perk of my office. The building is quiet and dark, and my heels echo on the hardwood floors. The downstairs walls are white and dotted with fliers for film screenings, clubs, fundraisers, and tutors. My office is on the third floor, in the back of the building, which overlooks the parking lot.

I barely manage to avoid scattering glass everywhere as I juggle open the door with my egg sandwich in one hand and my coffee in the other. I drop my stuff on my desk, making a mental note to clean the mess up before I leave for the evening, and settle in with my course planning for the upcoming week, playing Mark Lanegan on my iPod (which, thank god, I did not squash when Marilyn knocked me over).

I’m so caught up in what I’m doing that I don’t even notice anyone’s in the building until the door swings open and scares the shit out of me.

“Fuck!” I say, dragging my earbuds out. I’m lucky not to find myself clutching my heart. I don’t like to be startled.

And double-fuck me. The huge form in my doorway, carrying a heavy toolbox, is Rex.

For a few days after our… um, encounter, in the woods, Rex was on my mind constantly. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he smelled, about how it felt to be held like that, how he touched me. I mean, sex is great and all, but it felt different with him. He was so sure of everything he did, and it was like he knew me already—what I’d like, how I’d respond. He seemed to know things I didn’t even know myself. And while he was touching me, it felt like he actually cared. I know it’s stupid to read anything into someone getting off, but it felt… I dunno, personal. Then, after, it was clear I was wrong, since he didn’t even ask for my phone number. But then, that kiss. No idea what to make of it.

As soon as the semester started, all thoughts of Rex and his strange hot-cold switcheroo were replaced by teaching, office hours, putting books on hold, finding the best printers on campus, course planning, grading, finding the best coffee in town, getting a school ID, making nice with/avoiding my colleagues, and so on.

Well, maybe not all thoughts.

At night, in the uncomfortable bed that Carl left in the apartment for me, thoughts of Rex still trickled in. Like, I still hadn’t seen him completely naked. That I wondered what his come tasted like. That, although I usually topped, I was fairly desperate for him to fuck me.

Then there were the other thoughts. Idiotic, sappy, confusing thoughts that must have meant I was half-asleep. Like, I wondered how his mouth tasted in the middle of the night, just woken up from sleep. I wondered if he let Marilyn sleep in bed with him. Did he shower in the morning to get ready for the day, or at night, falling into bed clean, with the day washed away? What would it feel like to kiss his stubbled cheek?

And somehow it’s those thoughts—the sappy, confusing ones—that flood through me when he appears in my office doorway. I realize that I’ve never seen him in the daylight before and that there’s a lot of red in his brown hair and in his stubble, and a little gray in his sideburns. I wonder if there’s a chance at all that giving him a hug so that I could smell him and feel his heavy arms enfold me could be seen as in any way normal, and immediately answer no.

“Hey,” he says, sounding confused. “This is your office?”

“Yep, every last crumbling inch of it.” He’s still hovering in the doorway, looking around. “Um, do you want to come in? Watch the glass.” He closes the door behind him and I can hear the glass crunch under his heavy footfalls. “So, do you work for the school?” I can’t believe I never asked him what he did when we met in February. I guess I was too busy freaking out.

“No,” he says, setting down his toolbox on the corner of my desk. “Well, yeah, I do work for them, but they don’t employ me.”

That clears things up.

“Um,” I say, “what?”

“I mean, I’m not a janitor. I fix things. For lots of folks around town. And the school sometimes calls me to fix things for them. And I make furniture.”

Does he think I’d think there was something wrong with being a janitor? Well, maybe so. A lot of professors are weird about class shit—crusading for the working classes in their lectures about Dickens but thinking anyone who does a blue-collar job is too stupid to do what they do.

“That’s cool,” I say. “That you can fix things, I mean. My dad has an auto shop in Philly and all my brothers work there. I’m not very good at it, though. I mean, I can do basic maintenance and fix easy stuff, but I never really got into it the way they did.”

Rex visibly relaxes.

“Cars are one thing I never really learned to fix. So, your light fixture fell,” he says, shifting into professional mode. His whole posture changes: his shoulders loosen and he shifts his weight from foot to foot in a wide stance as he looks up at the ceiling.

“More like it committed suicide,” I say. “This student slammed the door and that’s what made the crack. I think the light fixture just decided it couldn’t stay in this office one day longer.”

Rex turns to me, his eyes intense.

“What happened?” He looks weirdly protective, like if I told him that students complain about bad grades he’d offer to beat them up for me or something.

“Just an entitled brat pissed off because I wouldn’t change his grade. First-semester freshman. Some of them are so nervous to be in college they work really hard. But some of them have never been told no before. They’re convinced they’ll never have to sacrifice anything. Like, they can skip class and party and still get all As, you know? It wears off.” Jesus, Daniel, stop rambling.

Rex nods.

“How come you don’t have a bunch of books in here?” he asks, looking around at my tiny cluster of books on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that gape around the perimeter of my office. “Most of the professors’ shelves are full. Did you not unpack yet?”

All my grad school friends had tons of books: old favorites from when they were kids, all their books from college, a ton of books for research. They thought it was weird that I didn’t because almost all of them came from smarty-pants families, but I never got books as a kid. I got a library card when I was in sixth or seventh grade, but I never wanted to check books out because I shared a room with Brian and he could be counted on to destroy anything I owned at any moment. Then, later, I never had cash to spare on buying books when I could get them from the library—especially not the pricey books of literary criticism or theory that my classmates spent thirty or fifty bucks a pop for.

“I don’t really have many,” I say. “Could never afford it. I just get the library to order things I need. Of course, that’s hard here because this library is tiny.”

“What’s that one about?” Rex asks, pointing.

“Oh, The House of Mirth? I’m teaching it in my Intro to American Lit class. It’s about this woman, Lily Bart, who wants to be a member of the upper class, so she goes to all the right parties and tries to make the right friends. But then she meets this guy who she really likes—he’s different than the stuffy people she usually socializes with—and kind of falls for him. Only he’s not rich, so she can’t let herself be with him. She tries to marry this awkward rich guy she doesn’t like, but it doesn’t work out. Eventually, she ends up in debt to the husband of one of her friends by mistake and has to get a job making hats. I don’t want to ruin the ending, but let’s just say it’s not happy. Edith Wharton hates happy endings.”

“Why was she so desperate to marry a rich guy?” Rex asks.

“Um, because she’s terrified of being poor. Terrified of living in an ugly place and not being admired. It’s really sad. A lot of people read it as Wharton’s commentary on how vapid and materialistic the upper class is, but she definitely writes it as a tragedy, so she’s not totally unsympathetic to Lily.” I break off, aware suddenly that I sound like I’m lecturing him about the book.

“She wrote that one about the guy and the sled, right?” Rex asks.

“Ethan Frome, yeah,” I say. Huh, maybe he wasn’t just asking about the book to be polite.

Rex smiles shyly. “I liked that one. It reminded me of here—all that snow, and how isolated it can feel.”

“So, do you read a lot?” I ask. Rex studies the mess on the floor.

“Oh, well, I like some of the stories,” he says, looking self-conscious. “So, let me grab a broom to clean this up, and then I’ll replaster the crack. I think we’ll have to get you a floor lamp, because the wiring in these offices is garbage, and I don’t want to try and hang a new light just to have these old wires crap out on you. I’ll put in the order for it on Monday.” He heads for the door.

“I can clean it up,” I say, getting up.

“Daniel, sit,” Rex says. “It’s fine. This is my job.” He turns around without another word.

“So,” Rex says when he gets back, running a hand over the back of his neck. “What with the chatting and all, I didn’t really think. You probably don’t want me in here doing this when you’re trying to do your work. They had me come by on a Saturday because they figured that’s when I wouldn’t be disturbing anybody.”

“No, no, I don’t mind. Stay.”

“Well, I don’t want to disturb you, banging around and all.”

“No, seriously. I worked as a bartender all through college and grad school. It was at this music venue in North Philly, and I’d do all my reading for classes while the shows were going on, because that’s when fewer people were at the bar, right? So, one night, I’m trying to finish the whole second half of Moby Dick for my seminar in the morning and the band that night is some shitty speed metal group trying to be Slayer and failing miserably. So I’m pouring drinks and trying to finish one of the greatest literary works of all time while the band is screaming unintelligibly in the background. I still hear feedback whenever someone even says the word ‘whale.’”

Rex laughs and leans a hip against my desk.

“Really, stay. I’d like the company.”

“Sure,” he says. “I can pretty much guarantee that I won’t scream, at least.” He pushes off the desk to reach for his toolbox and the whole thing lurches. He’s pretty heavy.

“Jesus, Daniel,” he says, squatting down to look at the desk, which I’ve shimmed with some old copies of the school literary magazine that I found in my filing cabinet. “This thing is falling apart. Did you put these here?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I stood on the desk the first day I was here to try and change the lightbulb in the ceiling fixture and the desk kind of slumped.”

“And they never gave you a new one?”

“Oh, well, I never asked. I just stuck those there and they were actually the perfect height, so it’s fine now.”

“Yeah, as long as no one touches it,” he says.

“Well, not everyone’s as big as you.” The words are out of my mouth before I think about it. “Um, I mean….” Heat sparks in Rex’s eyes as he looks me up and down. “As heavy as you, I mean. No! As muscular, is what I meant.” Jesus, Daniel.

Rex laughs, his smile wide. “I know what you mean,” he says, his voice a little lower than it was a minute ago. “Here, I’ll put in a work order for a new one for you.”

“No, don’t bother,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Oh, I just—I dunno. I don’t really need a new one; it’s fine as it is.” Rex is looking at me strangely.

“Your call,” he says, shrugging. Then he starts to sweep up the glass.

It’s nice to have some company while I work—just to be in the same space with someone. Rex has moved on to whatever he’s doing to the crack in the ceiling, but now I’m definitely finding myself distracted because he’s standing on a stepladder, and his every move causes the muscles in his back and shoulders to flex beneath the white T-shirt he’s wearing. His body is gorgeous. He’s not perfectly sculpted like those guys who work out at gyms all the time. He’s big—heavy frame, wide hips, wider shoulders, big feet and hands. And, I can see now, an ass for days.

I’m zoning out, staring at his ass in his worn jeans, when he turns around and looks at me. There’s not even any point in trying to look back at my notes and pretend I wasn’t just seriously scoping him out. But he has a little smile on his lips.

“I can see your reflection in the window,” he says.

“Oh, jeez.” I drop my head into my arms on the desk. “Sorry,” I say miserably.

“That’s okay. I kind of feel like Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch.”

“You really love Marilyn Monroe, huh?” I say.

“She was my mom’s favorite.”

“Oh, hey,” I say, remembering. “I watched Gaslight. When I got back to Philly. I really liked it.”

Rex grins and it almost takes my breath away. It’s a smile that reaches all the way to his whiskey-colored eyes, wrinkling the skin at the corners. Whereas his face is classically handsome, with those high cheekbones, straight nose, and strong brows, his dimples make him look boyish when he smiles, that crooked incisor just catching on his lower lip, and one front tooth the slightest bit behind the other.

“But the library only had the one that was on at your house. The American one. You were talking about the British one, but they didn’t have it.”

“I have it,” Rex says. “You could borrow it.” He pauses and looks down. “Or, if you wanted to come over some time, we could watch it.” He seems almost shy about asking.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” I say.

“So, how has your first month been?” Rex asks, turning his attention back to the plaster.

“Um, yeah, been okay,” I say. “I found coffee, there’s a library, and I have Internet in my apartment, so there’s that. You know what’s killing me, though, is that nowhere has takeout or delivery after, like, nine o’clock except the pizza place. And, I mean, I love pizza, but there’s only so much of it I can eat in a week.”

“You don’t like to cook, I guess,” Rex says.

“Never really learned,” I tell him. “When I was a kid, my dad would always make a huge pot of something—chili or spaghetti or something—and leave it on the stove for me and my brothers to grab. Then, when I was in school, I just didn’t have the time to learn. And my stove in Philly was… well, I don’t know for sure it would’ve exploded if I’d used it, but there was a distinct possibility.” Rex smiles. “I guess I’ll need to learn now, though, or I’m going to get scurvy. I think the waiters at the diner already know my name, which is embarrassing because I don’t think anyone else even knows I exist.”

“Oh, they know,” Rex says, sounding amused.

“Huh?”

“Oh, yeah. You’re the”—he speaks like he’s quoting—“angry, gay professor from New York City who uses all the ten-dollar words.”

I try to remember what words I’ve used when I’ve talked to people, but I can’t. So, people here already think I’m both pretentious and aggressive. Great.

“I’m from Philadelphia,” I say.

“Yeah, but they think you look like you’re from New York. Because of how you dress.”

“How I dress?”

“You look… um, edgy. Your hair and all.” My hair just happens to look messy no matter what—possibly because I pull on it when I’m irritated—so I go with it.

“And I’m not angry. Well….” Thinking back, I may have expressed disappointment that certain establishments closed at 5:00 p.m. a couple of times in public.

Rex laughs.

“Daniel, this is a small town. They’ll get to know you soon and stop making assumptions about you. But they go from what they hear, and every kid who works at the coffee shop whispers about the professor who swears and drinks more espresso than anyone they’ve ever seen. Carl tells anyone who’ll listen about how he’s got a gay man living in his apartment because he thinks it makes him seem, I don’t know, hip or something. They’re interested in you, that’s all.”

“Hmph.” I don’t know what to make of that. I suppose I should’ve guessed. “It’s like high school or something. Everyone knowing everyone else’s business.”

“I suppose.” Rex climbs down the stepladder and wipes his hands on his jeans. He gives me a little smile. “All set,” he says. “I’ll put in the order for a lamp for you on Monday. They have extras in storage, so it shouldn’t be long.”

“Oh, great, thanks.” I wrack my brain for something to say to delay him leaving. Should I ask him to get a coffee or something?

“All right, then. I have to get home to walk Marilyn or she’s like to be stir crazy.” Rex puts everything back in his toolbox and rests it on my desk again. I stand up, unsure of whether I’m supposed to shake his hand or just say good-bye or what.

“Thanks,” I say again, and my voice sounds disappointed even to me. I hear Ginger’s voice in my head: Just ask him for his phone number! The worst he can say is no, and at least then you’ll know and you can stop obsessing over him. Because you are, you know. Obsessing over him.

“Rex, can I—” He looks right at me and I feel all out of sorts. I swallow and try again. “Can I have your phone number? You know, um, so I can call you….” And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where I trail off. Could I be any stupider? Yeah, Rex, can I have your phone number in case you ever want to talk to a socially awkward idiot?

Something crosses Rex’s face that I can’t quite read. Oh shit, he’s actually going to say no.

He searches his pockets without looking at me and doesn’t seem to find whatever he’s looking for.

“Um,” he says, “why don’t you give me yours?”

Oh god, that is a classic blow-off. My face heats and my ears are ringing like they do whenever I’m fucking mortified. But I rip a corner off of the syllabus on my desk and lean over to write my cell number on it. Then I write Daniel, in case it’s one of a dozen slips of paper with phone numbers Rex never intends to call. Christ, should I put my last name in case there’s another Daniel?

I hand Rex the paper and he folds it carefully and puts it in his pocket.

“Have a good night, Daniel,” he says, and leaves, taking all the air in the room with him.

 

 

I’M PASSING by Sludge a few days later, debating whether an evening cappuccino would hit the spot or just make it impossible to sleep, when a sound like a gunshot drops me to the ground out of habit, my heart pounding. I peek around the tree I ducked behind but see nothing except the lush, trimmed grass and well-maintained garbage cans. Then Marjorie pushes open the door to Sludge, wrestling with the glasses she keeps on a chain around her neck.

“Paulie!” Her voice is shrill and I’m struck with the sense that I’m somehow in trouble. “Paulie, was that my car?”

Across the street, the door of a white Honda Accord opens slowly and a thin man slinks out of the car.

I can’t decide whether to stay down, out of the fray, or make a break for it. I’m doing something ill-advisedly in the middle—a kind of pretend-I-dropped-something slash tying-my-shoe maneuver—when Marjorie notices me.

“Daniel? What’s wrong? Why are you on the ground?”

“Oh, well,” I say. “Um, just—in my shoe—or….”

That went well.

“Ah, yes, dear,” she says, then turns her attention to the man walking toward us.

“Sorry, Mother,” the man says. “I don’t know what happened. I just tried to start the car and it… exploded.”

“I said you could borrow my car, not break it, Paul,” Marjorie says tartly, and the man winces. Wow, I guess even adults can still get told off by their mothers. I wouldn’t know.

The man—Paul—sighs in irritation. “Well, Mark’s closed for the evening, so I guess I’ll have to take the car in tomorrow.”

“Well, I should hope so, since you’re the one who broke it.”

“I didn’t break it, Mother. Cars just do things. No one knows why. Except Mark,” he says resentfully. “And god knows whether he’s even telling the truth about the cars. I swear, every time I take mine in it costs me three hundred dollars.” I take in his khaki pants and polo shirt and figure that he’s not particularly comfortable in a garage.

“Um, hi,” I say, stepping toward them. “I can take a look at it, if you want. From the sound of it, though, it’s probably your spark plugs, or maybe the catalytic converter.”

They’re both staring at me.

“I’m Daniel,” I say, offering my hand to Paul. That’s what you’re supposed to do in a small town, right? Be friendly and, like, tell people things about yourself?

“You’re the new professor over at the college?” Paul says, trying for casual, but peering at me intently.

“I told you about him, Paul,” Marjorie says, elbowing Paul, and my stomach clenches. “And I wish you would get over this tiff with Mark, dear. You’re not in high school anymore.”

“And you know about cars, do you?” Paul says, clearly desperate for a change of subject even though he looks skeptical.

“A bit. You want to pop the hood?”

While Paul fumbles to pop the hood, I take off my button-down shirt so I don’t get it dirty and untuck my T-shirt so I don’t look like an idiot.

Staring down into the guts of the Accord makes me feel like I’m ten years old again, when my dad would open up a car and line up me, Brian, Colin, and Sam in front of it to see which of us could guess the problem first. Colin, who’s extremely competitive, almost always won. You wouldn’t guess it, since he tends to act like a yahoo much of the time, but Colin’s actually really smart. He could spot the problem before the rest of us had even started to narrow it down. Of course, later, after I’d stopped pretending that I cared about the cars, I wondered if Brian and Sam didn’t sometimes let Colin win because he got so angry when he didn’t.

Marjorie appears at my elbow, holding out a bundle of paper towel when I start to unconsciously wipe my hands on my pants.

“Thanks.”

She just shakes her head at me and I can practically hear the word “hoodlum” rattling around in her head as she takes in my tattoos and my now-dirty hands.

“Um, it’s not the cat, so that’s good. The catalytic converter,” I correct myself, when Marjorie and Paul exchange a look that clearly says I’ve confirmed their suspicion that I don’t know anything about cars. “I think it’s probably a spark plug wire. If it sparks too early or too late, it messes up your ignition timing. I can’t test the wires here, but if that’s what it is, it shouldn’t be that expensive to fix.”

Marjorie’s smiling and Paul’s looking at me blankly. Two Sludge customers holding iced coffee concoctions have found their way over and are standing next to Marjorie, staring at me.

“Hey,” I say to them. “Um, so, yeah. It’s not hard to replace them,” I say to Paul. “Mark—is it?—will just need to run a diagnostic to see which wire’s the problem and then replace that one. I mean, if that’s what’s wrong,” I say, not wanting to sound like a know-it-all. I could offer to try and fix it for them, but in a town with only one mechanic, it doesn’t seem wise to step on his toes.

“Thank you,” says Paul, holding out his hand.

“Aren’t you the new professor?” one of the coffee-drinkers—a thirtysomething woman with badly bleached hair—asks confusedly.

“Yeah, hi,” I say, holding out my hand to her. “I’m Daniel.” She seems confused by the gesture, but then gives a limp, lingering shake.

“Wow,” she says. “I’m Ellen. So you fix cars too, huh? I wonder what other tricks you’ve got up your sleeve.”

“Oh, no, not really,” I say. “My dad owns a shop in Philly, so I’ve just picked up some stuff.”

They’re all looking at me like they expect me to give them more information, but I don’t have anything else to say. I can’t tell if they’re thinking that knowing about cars disrupts the gay stereotype or the academic stereotype more. I gather up my stuff and try to extricate myself before they can ask any more questions.

“You,” Marjorie says, pointing at me. “Free coffee tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I didn’t really do anything.”

“Don’t argue; just accept it,” Marjorie says, and I smile.

“See you tomorrow!” Marjorie calls after me.