Gone Wild: Love in Midlife, #2

Acknowledgments

SPECIAL THANKS to CHRIS SOTH, author of Million-Dollar Screenwriting: The Mini-Movie Method, for his assistance in developing this story.

One

T.S. Eliot was wrong when he wrote that April is the cruelest month. That honor goes to September in my opinion. It’s in September when the excitement of a new school year begins to fade, and the realization that there will soon be mountains of barely legible papers to grade starts to sink in.

I’m enjoying one final bit of calm before the tsunami of dreck floods my office.

First assignments are due this week.

For my lunch hour I’ve decided to do another reading of ‘The Waste Land’ by T.S. Eliot. I haven’t looked at the poem since my senior year of college. It was the subject of my Honor’s thesis. That was twenty-five years ago.

I have no doubt that I’ll view the text much differently as a jaded forty-six-year-old English professor than I did as an idealistic twenty-one-year-old student.

I’m holed up in my second favorite place on Earth: the fourth floor of the Bookman University Library. It’s quiet and I’m surrounded by books. What more could a woman ask for? It’s rare that a student journeys all the way up to the fourth floor of the library anymore, if they even set foot in the library at all. Students no longer feel the need to venture through the vast stacks of books. They can search online for anything and everything. A world of information awaits them at the touch of a keyboard.

Members of the younger generation don’t seem to have the affinity for paper books that I do. They call them dead-tree editions. I still enjoy the feeling of holding a book in my hands and the weight of the volume as I thumb through the pages. One of my favorite smells is a book that has just been purchased, the very first time I crack its spine. I always take a quick sniff of the book’s interior. Some people love new-car-smell. I love new-book-smell.

Spending my lunch hour hidden in the stacks is like a little slice of heaven in the center of our small northwest New Jersey campus. And Gus, the library security guard, never says anything if he catches me sneaking a bite of my granola bar as I enjoy reading one of the books from the library’s vast collection. Rebel that I am I like to eat my lunch right under the sign that says: No Food or Drink. Gus usually just greets me with a, Good afternoon, Dr. Daniels, and a warm smile.

Gus was a security guard at Bookman College when I was an undergraduate student. I’ve never asked him if he remembered catching me and my college boyfriend making out in the stacks on the third floor. He called us hooligans even though he couldn’t have been more than a few years older than us at the time.

I never would have guessed I’d spend my entire professional career back at Bookman. When I left to do my graduate work at Columbia I thought I’d left New Jersey behind for good.

Funny how life never seems to go as planned.

A few minutes before my lunch hour is over I head downstairs to checkout my cache of treasures. It’s not unusual for me to consume a few books per day.

Rayleen Parks, the university’s head librarian, is on front desk duty. She usually takes over for the lunch hour so her staff members can go on their breaks.

I would guess Rayleen is in her 60s by now. She was an ambitious young librarian in her prime when I was an undergraduate at Bookman.

Dr. Daniels, she greets me when I place a small stack of books on the counter for her to scan.

How are you today, Miss Parks?

I’m still standing, she quips.

And I’m still reading, I fire back.

That’s been our little joke for years. The first time I asked her how she was doing and she told me she was still standing, I just couldn’t resist the rejoinder.

We still laugh at the silly joke even after all these years.

And how was your evening? she asks in a more hushed tone.

He kept me up all night, I reminisce.

I knew he would, she whispers.

Would you like to give him a try? I’m more than willing to share.

Rayleen blushes. I’m getting a little old for that.

Nonsense, I counter. You’re never too old for love.

She gives a polite chuckle behind her palm. I suppose you’re right. I think I might like to give him a go.

I remove a paperback copy of Camille from my book bag and hand it to her. You won’t be sorry. And don’t be surprised if Armand Duval keeps you up all night too.

* * *

Bookman College was founded in 1866. Most of the original historic buildings line the idyllic, picture-perfect campus in the center of Bookman, New Jersey. Located in the northwest corner of the state the small town is home to nine thousand full-time residents and two thousand college students. Most of the folks who reside in Bookman work for the college in some capacity, or service the students and residents of the town. Bookman has no other industries to speak of other than the college.

Like most of the other professors at Bookman I live in one of the historic two-story colonials within a few blocks of the campus. Unlike most of the other professors I refuse to walk to school. The very idea is simply barbaric. It’s bad enough that I have to brave the brutal elements to transport myself from my office to the library and back on a daily basis. If there was a way to facilitate the trek other than my own two feet I would definitely employ that method. For now I am still forced to hoof it back to Building Q where the English faculty members are housed and where all of my classes are held.

As I make the unpleasant hike to Building Q I overhear two students ahead of me talking.

Dr. Daniels is such a bitch.

I know, right. I changed my major from English to Communications so I wouldn’t have to take anymore of her ridiculous classes.

I want to scream: I’m right here. I can hear you. But part of me knows they’re right. I can be a bitch. I’ve become that professor. The professor I’ve always said I’d never be: arrogant, unreasonable, inflexible, condescending...Name an unfavorable adjective and I’m sure a student has used it to describe me.

I’ve become the professor who all of the students love to hate.

She doesn’t care about anything except books.

I bet that old prune hasn’t been screwed in decades.

She probably has a book on the pillow next to her instead of a man.

The two students get a great laugh at my expense before they head off towards Building D, where arts and communications are housed.

It has been a while since I’ve had male companionship, but it hasn’t been decades. And I don’t have a book on the pillow next to me, I have several books.

Isn’t 40 supposed to be the new 30? I’m only 46. I don’t think I qualify as an old prune quite yet.

* * *

This came for you in the campus mail. My student assistant, Esther, hands me a large manila envelope.

Esther is a senior, majoring in English. She approached me at the end of the last school year and asked if she could work as my assistant. I immediately accepted her offer because she’s one of the few students I’ve had recently who actually reminds me of myself when I was her age. She’s dedicated to her studies, eager to learn, and passionate about literature. Unfortunately students of her caliber with a devotion to the great books are becoming increasingly rare in a generation of students who are addicted to social media and celebrity status. If I had a dollar for every student who has told me he or she plans to make a living being a YouTube sensation, or a star on Instagram, I’d already have enough money to retire.

I’ve been waiting for the invitation to be Esther’s senior thesis advisor. It’s been several years since I’ve been approached by a student who I’ve actually looked forward to mentoring. Esther is the best and brightest in her class and I expect big things from her. I have no doubt she’ll be admitted into one of the finest doctoral programs in the country. She’ll probably have her choice of top programs to attend.

Thank you, Esther, I tell her as I take the envelope from her hand.

She tucks a strand of her shoulder length blonde hair behind her ear. It’s quite uncanny how much we look alike. So much so that we could easily be mistaken for mother and daughter. I’ve always worn my blonde hair in a similar style, although mine has gotten a few inches shorter over the years so it’s now more of a bob. She has sparkling blue eyes, much bluer than mine. Although in my younger days I was told that my blue eyes twinkled a bit.

Dr. Daniels. There’s a bit of apprehension in her voice.

What is it, Esther?

I’ve taken half of my English classes with you. You know I strive to be a high achieving student.

Yes, you’re one of the top students in our department.

She gulps. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. She’s going to ask me to be her senior thesis advisor.

I was wondering if you would put in a good word for me with Dr. Simmons. I’m going to ask him to be my senior thesis advisor, and I know your recommendation would mean a lot.

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. She’s asking Brett Simmons to work with her on her senior thesis and not me. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

Of course, I tell her. My voice sounds much higher pitched than normal and I feel as though the words are getting caught in my throat.

She grins. Thank you so much, Dr. Daniels. Getting the opportunity to work with Dr. Simmons on my project would be like a dream come true. Not only is he a renowned scholar, he’s so supportive of his students. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your recommendation to him.

I’m happy to help.

Do you need anything else before I go? she asks. I try to remember being as enthusiastic and joyful as she is. It’s been so long since I experienced such wonder and excitement in any aspect of my life, I’d nearly forgotten such feelings existed. It’s easily been two decades.

I feel a twinge of jealously that I know is inappropriate, but I can’t seem to wash the feeling away as quickly as I would like.

I’m fine, Esther. Thank you for your help.

See you tomorrow. She gives me a quick wave before she exits my office.

What does Brett Simmons have that I don’t? We have very similar educational backgrounds and our publication records are nearly identical.

He’s so supportive of his students. Esther’s words echo in my head. The implication is clear. I’m not. I immediately think back to the conversation I overheard walking back to my office from the library.

I’m perceived as a bitch who only cares about books. Who would want a thesis advisor like that? Apparently only students who don’t have a choice because every other advisor already has a full roster of students want an advisor like me.

I feel like I want to cry, but no tears come out. I haven’t been able to shed a true tear since I turned thirty, the worst year of my life.

After a long moment I realize I still have the unopened manila envelope in my hand. I grab my letter opener and carefully unseal the envelope.

It’s a flyer listing all of the events for my Back to Bookman 25th Reunion. There are events scheduled for the entire Labor Day weekend. What started out as a simple dinner and dance has now mushroomed into a three-day long extravaganza according to the organizers.

My immediate reaction is to stuff the flyer into my shredder. I would rather chew on tinfoil than participate in their golf tournament. And their lakeside family picnic and fun Olympics sounds even less appealing.

Why would I want to spend time with people I haven’t had contact with in a quarter of a century? I wasn’t that fond of any of them when we were in our twenties.

There is one exception. The boy I made a habit of making out with in the college library, my fellow hooligan, Liam Asher. I haven’t seen Liam since the day we graduated and went our separate ways for graduate school. I heard through the grapevine that he dropped out of his Ph.D. program and went to law school instead.

He’s someone I might like to see. If I used social media of any kind I understand I could see photos of him on the Facebook. I haven’t even progressed to a cellphone yet. I’m afraid I’m a dying breed. I’m one of the last of the luddites. Even my seventy-year-old mother brags about how many people are following her on Twitter.

The truth of the matter is that even if I was to acquire a cellphone I have no one to call. And part of me