Four Academic Power Plays In Three Acts
Aug. 9th, 2008 11:57 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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writers_loftAuthor: baltimoreandme
Title: Four Academic Power Plays In Three Acts
Type: short story
Warnings: none
I don't usually write about academia. However, the other day this popped into my head. Criticism and comments are more than welcome.
I.
“What did he say about it?”
“He won’t answer my emails.” Anne Tandy swirled soapy water around in her coffee cup and dumped the pale brown, bubbly mixture into the sink. She turned around to face the other two graduate students in the lounge, Charlotte and Dan, who sat side by side on the blue sofa, under the window. Outside, it was drizzling, lightly. The smell of stale coffee, and the smell of moldy couch settled into Anne’s hair, and Charlotte’s hair, and Dan’s clothes. Ann refilled her cup to rinse it out, and again sloshed water, this time clearer, into the sink. “I thought about asking about how busy he was, but – ” she shrugged, and then laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Anne had a peculiarly loud, braying laugh, and teeth like Teddy Roosevelt. “I’m trying to cut back on the passive aggression.”
“It’s hard.” Dan re-crossed his legs. He had taken off his sneakers, and his large, angular feet, in tight white socks, were as variable in position and expression as his similarly large and bony hands.
“Did you try his office hours?” Charlotte asked.
“There’s always a line. And a sign-up sheet.”
Dan curled his toes. “I hate the sign-up sheet.”
“You’d think we were undergraduates.”
“Hmm.” Charlotte was something of a specialist in non-committal noises. Anne and Dan waited for her to speak, but in the end she merely smiled and shrugged.
“Asshole.” Ann rinsed out the mug once more and set it in the dishrack.
Voices, one male and several female, mingled in the hall outside. The sociology department was tiled in pale yellow tile, like a sanatorium, and everything echoed. A tall, long-legged man in a white shirt passed by the open door of the graduate lounge, and a glass bottle rattled in the recycling bin.
Charlotte bent over to rummage in her backpack, the front pocket of which was slashed open, as if the black nylon had gotten caught on something, and extracted a scuffed green plastic water-bottle. Her hair, in a heavy golden braid, fell forward over her shoulder.
The tall long-legged man re-appeared in the doorway, leaning slightly so as to see into the room. “Hallo, Charlotte.” His smile was cheerful, and his short sandy hair formed a coarse, slightly graying halo about his head. “I thought I heard your voice.” He was Dutch, and his accent rendered th as t, and the d in heard as a t.
Charlotte looked up, smiled, and at the same time blushed. A large area of flushed pink skin showed between her three or four hemp necklaces, and the v of her mostly-buttoned flannel shirt.
“How are you?”
“Good, good.” Charlotte and the tall man continued to smile at one another. Anne had the distinct impression that had there been a rock to kick, or a dog to play with, the tall man would have kicked the rock or played with the dog, all the time glancing at Charlotte, to see how she took the display. As it was, he merely played with the bandanna he wore at his throat. Outside, it continued to drizzle. Dan shifted slightly on the couch. Anne retrieved her coffee cup from the dishrack, so as to appear to be doing something. “Hello, Professor de Witt.”
He nodded to Anne, and then, still looking cheerful, smiled at Charlotte again, said goodbye, and went back down the hall. An echo of his expression lingered on Charlotte's face for a moment, and then she shook her head, and unscrewed the cap from her water bottle.
II.
“He won’t let me finish.”
“He won’t let you?” Charlotte and Priscilla were sitting on the floor on the third level of the library, between two stacks in the DA section. Early modern British history.
“Over and over. The same corrections. The same chapter. And I do it, and he gives it back, and he says it’s not good enough, and then we start over.” Priscilla closed her eyes and pushed her hair from her face. “I know it’s bad. I know I can’t write for shit. I know. But he won’t let it go. He’s done too much work on it. It has to end.”
Charlotte shifted position so she was sitting cross-legged on the hard floor. She leaned back, and the edge of a metal shelf cut across her back. “I can read it, if you want me to.”
Priscilla shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll go work at the post office. I’ll get a job at the Gap. It doesn’t matter.”
Charlotte said nothing, and watched, with a tightness in her own throat, the trembling at the corners of her friend’s mouth, and around her eyes. Priss was four years older than she was, and had grown up in New Mexico. Sun and age – she was thirty-two – had created tiny, soft crinkles in the skin around her eyes. One silver bracelet clinked quietly against another as she buried her face in her hands.
“Oh, don’t – ” Charlotte touched her shoulder. “Don’t, Priss. It’ll be alright. Really.”
Priss shook her head.
III.
“But it’s not working.” An edge of impatience hardened Professor O’Meara’s voice. “I don’t understand why it’s not working.”
Abigail O’Meara and Charlotte Sawyer stood side by side at the lectern, facing the empty lecture hall. It was a large hall, and could seat about one hundred students. One of the windows was open, and a shift in the air caused a vast expanse of dusty green curtain to rise, and fall again, softly.
“It might be the projector.”
“Can we get the tech support guy back?”
Charlotte shook her head. “I’ll go look.” She stepped down from the dais at the front of the hall, and the sound of her rubber hiking sandals on the polished wood was louder than she liked as she made her way to the back of the hall, where there was a small, cramped room that smelled of warm plastic and housed the projector controls. Charlotte crouched on the threadbare carpet, ran her fingertips across the warm bank of controls, and then flipped three switches and adjusted a dial. “Try the microphone now.” She didn’t have to raise her voice; the sound carried of its own in this room.
Three taps indicated that Abigail had tried the microphone, and that it worked. “But what about the input from the computer?” The edge was still in her voice. She did not want the undergraduates to arrive and find her unprepared.
As Charlotte returned to the front of the hall, the chapel bells began to toll. The sound rolled across the quad, and rang against the gray granite façade of the library. “Restart it, and then open Blackboard.” Blackboard was the course-management utility that housed Abigail’s recently digitized slide collection.
Abigail restarted the computer, and they waited for Windows to load. The pale blue screen reflected across the surface of Charlotte’s watch, and on the heavy silver pendant Abigail was wearing. When she moved, to enter her password, Charlotte smelled her perfume, something sharp and dark and only vaguely floral. She glanced sideways at Professor O’Meara. Three discussion sections a week, and all the tech-monkeying for the course, and she had hardly had a conversation with the woman. Abigail was standing very still, Charlotte realized, and she felt rather than heard the other woman draw herself in, pull her arms a little closer to her body. Abigail was pointedly not looking in her direction, and Charlotte heard her swallow. Charlotte swallowed. The bell outside continued to ring. Abigail wet her lips, and then the door banged and with a smack of flip-flops, and shuffling boots, and moccasins, and the clatter of a dropped travel-mug, ringing phones and giggles and grunts and shufflings of paper, the undergraduates began to filter into the lecture hall.
Title: Four Academic Power Plays In Three Acts
Type: short story
Warnings: none
I don't usually write about academia. However, the other day this popped into my head. Criticism and comments are more than welcome.
I.
“What did he say about it?”
“He won’t answer my emails.” Anne Tandy swirled soapy water around in her coffee cup and dumped the pale brown, bubbly mixture into the sink. She turned around to face the other two graduate students in the lounge, Charlotte and Dan, who sat side by side on the blue sofa, under the window. Outside, it was drizzling, lightly. The smell of stale coffee, and the smell of moldy couch settled into Anne’s hair, and Charlotte’s hair, and Dan’s clothes. Ann refilled her cup to rinse it out, and again sloshed water, this time clearer, into the sink. “I thought about asking about how busy he was, but – ” she shrugged, and then laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Anne had a peculiarly loud, braying laugh, and teeth like Teddy Roosevelt. “I’m trying to cut back on the passive aggression.”
“It’s hard.” Dan re-crossed his legs. He had taken off his sneakers, and his large, angular feet, in tight white socks, were as variable in position and expression as his similarly large and bony hands.
“Did you try his office hours?” Charlotte asked.
“There’s always a line. And a sign-up sheet.”
Dan curled his toes. “I hate the sign-up sheet.”
“You’d think we were undergraduates.”
“Hmm.” Charlotte was something of a specialist in non-committal noises. Anne and Dan waited for her to speak, but in the end she merely smiled and shrugged.
“Asshole.” Ann rinsed out the mug once more and set it in the dishrack.
Voices, one male and several female, mingled in the hall outside. The sociology department was tiled in pale yellow tile, like a sanatorium, and everything echoed. A tall, long-legged man in a white shirt passed by the open door of the graduate lounge, and a glass bottle rattled in the recycling bin.
Charlotte bent over to rummage in her backpack, the front pocket of which was slashed open, as if the black nylon had gotten caught on something, and extracted a scuffed green plastic water-bottle. Her hair, in a heavy golden braid, fell forward over her shoulder.
The tall long-legged man re-appeared in the doorway, leaning slightly so as to see into the room. “Hallo, Charlotte.” His smile was cheerful, and his short sandy hair formed a coarse, slightly graying halo about his head. “I thought I heard your voice.” He was Dutch, and his accent rendered th as t, and the d in heard as a t.
Charlotte looked up, smiled, and at the same time blushed. A large area of flushed pink skin showed between her three or four hemp necklaces, and the v of her mostly-buttoned flannel shirt.
“How are you?”
“Good, good.” Charlotte and the tall man continued to smile at one another. Anne had the distinct impression that had there been a rock to kick, or a dog to play with, the tall man would have kicked the rock or played with the dog, all the time glancing at Charlotte, to see how she took the display. As it was, he merely played with the bandanna he wore at his throat. Outside, it continued to drizzle. Dan shifted slightly on the couch. Anne retrieved her coffee cup from the dishrack, so as to appear to be doing something. “Hello, Professor de Witt.”
He nodded to Anne, and then, still looking cheerful, smiled at Charlotte again, said goodbye, and went back down the hall. An echo of his expression lingered on Charlotte's face for a moment, and then she shook her head, and unscrewed the cap from her water bottle.
II.
“He won’t let me finish.”
“He won’t let you?” Charlotte and Priscilla were sitting on the floor on the third level of the library, between two stacks in the DA section. Early modern British history.
“Over and over. The same corrections. The same chapter. And I do it, and he gives it back, and he says it’s not good enough, and then we start over.” Priscilla closed her eyes and pushed her hair from her face. “I know it’s bad. I know I can’t write for shit. I know. But he won’t let it go. He’s done too much work on it. It has to end.”
Charlotte shifted position so she was sitting cross-legged on the hard floor. She leaned back, and the edge of a metal shelf cut across her back. “I can read it, if you want me to.”
Priscilla shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll go work at the post office. I’ll get a job at the Gap. It doesn’t matter.”
Charlotte said nothing, and watched, with a tightness in her own throat, the trembling at the corners of her friend’s mouth, and around her eyes. Priss was four years older than she was, and had grown up in New Mexico. Sun and age – she was thirty-two – had created tiny, soft crinkles in the skin around her eyes. One silver bracelet clinked quietly against another as she buried her face in her hands.
“Oh, don’t – ” Charlotte touched her shoulder. “Don’t, Priss. It’ll be alright. Really.”
Priss shook her head.
III.
“But it’s not working.” An edge of impatience hardened Professor O’Meara’s voice. “I don’t understand why it’s not working.”
Abigail O’Meara and Charlotte Sawyer stood side by side at the lectern, facing the empty lecture hall. It was a large hall, and could seat about one hundred students. One of the windows was open, and a shift in the air caused a vast expanse of dusty green curtain to rise, and fall again, softly.
“It might be the projector.”
“Can we get the tech support guy back?”
Charlotte shook her head. “I’ll go look.” She stepped down from the dais at the front of the hall, and the sound of her rubber hiking sandals on the polished wood was louder than she liked as she made her way to the back of the hall, where there was a small, cramped room that smelled of warm plastic and housed the projector controls. Charlotte crouched on the threadbare carpet, ran her fingertips across the warm bank of controls, and then flipped three switches and adjusted a dial. “Try the microphone now.” She didn’t have to raise her voice; the sound carried of its own in this room.
Three taps indicated that Abigail had tried the microphone, and that it worked. “But what about the input from the computer?” The edge was still in her voice. She did not want the undergraduates to arrive and find her unprepared.
As Charlotte returned to the front of the hall, the chapel bells began to toll. The sound rolled across the quad, and rang against the gray granite façade of the library. “Restart it, and then open Blackboard.” Blackboard was the course-management utility that housed Abigail’s recently digitized slide collection.
Abigail restarted the computer, and they waited for Windows to load. The pale blue screen reflected across the surface of Charlotte’s watch, and on the heavy silver pendant Abigail was wearing. When she moved, to enter her password, Charlotte smelled her perfume, something sharp and dark and only vaguely floral. She glanced sideways at Professor O’Meara. Three discussion sections a week, and all the tech-monkeying for the course, and she had hardly had a conversation with the woman. Abigail was standing very still, Charlotte realized, and she felt rather than heard the other woman draw herself in, pull her arms a little closer to her body. Abigail was pointedly not looking in her direction, and Charlotte heard her swallow. Charlotte swallowed. The bell outside continued to ring. Abigail wet her lips, and then the door banged and with a smack of flip-flops, and shuffling boots, and moccasins, and the clatter of a dropped travel-mug, ringing phones and giggles and grunts and shufflings of paper, the undergraduates began to filter into the lecture hall.
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Date: 2008-08-11 04:24 pm (UTC)I intended it to be fairly open in terms of interpretation. In all three parts, I think there are ways to read the interactions that make Charlotte look either rather innocent, or slightly unpleasant. Attraction between students and professors is usually harmless, but sometimes not.
I always appreciate your comments, by the way - you have a way of putting your finger on the weak or potentially problematic parts of my stories.