How It Ends: Part 1 - The Evaluation (2 page)

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes
with the palms of his hands. He tried to push the voice of his
mother out of his head. That was long ago and far away. That no
longer mattered. She was gone and he was here.

He hated it here.

Papers were arranged neatly on his desk.
They lay in two neat and even piles, the ones he had read and the
ones he hadn’t. In the middle of the desk lay the paper he’d been
correcting. Papers from students he didn’t know. Names he did not
recognize. Numbers identifying each pupil. Social security numbers
scrawled in a mix of legible and illegible. So much dust blowing in
the wind of academia.

He put his glasses back on and checked his
watch. Nearly nine. Break time.

He stood from his desk. The papers lay still
like nervous virgins. He smiled at that thought. He didn’t have
classes today so he could come right back and continue reading. It
was too bad the reading wasn’t enjoyable. He’d hoped for more when
he took this professorship. He’d hoped for some kind of lifestyle
he assumed professors led. He felt misled by every work of
collegiate-setting fiction he’d ever read or seen in the movies. He
felt like he wanted to sue. Which was of course ridiculous.

His back creaked and his knees cracked as he
stood. He’d sat hunched over too long. His arms thrust out to his
sides as he stretched and his long reach nearly touched the walls
off his small office. His chair was comfortable but he spent more
time hunched over his desk than reclining. He supposed he could
grade some papers at home but there were too many distractions
there. Besides, who really wanted to bring work home?

He shrugged into his jacket. It fit him
athletically, just how he liked it. Made him look younger and
hipper and fitter. Made him feel more attractive. Made him more
attractive. With attractiveness came rewards. Young women would
flock to him. And sometimes men, but that wasn’t really his thing.
The women would bat their eyes and pout their lips and lean in
close with low-cut blouses that begged to be explored with his
eyes. He was always happy to accommodate. He was Henry Hudson and
these young attractive desperate coeds were the river upon which to
navigate. Raise the sails and hoist the mizzen mast and feel the
salty spray in your face. For god, king and country, let us seek
out new lands to conquer, plant our flag in fertile ground and
claim our victory. Hear our victory cry.

He glanced at the papers on his desk and
made a slight change in the arrangement, making them into perfectly
ordered stacks. Neat and precise. He was not the type of person who
liked things out of place. As lurid an existence as he lived among
the coeds he still felt the unquenchable urge to be tidy, sex
notwithstanding. He reached back and moved his pencil so that its
line was a perfect parallel to the bottom of his desk. Done and he
breathed freer.

He pulled the door to his office closed. It
locked from the inside. His shoes echoed down the hall as he took
long strides toward the stairs.

* * *

The smell of coffee as he entered always
took him back to his own time at college. Coffee and cigarettes had
been the diet. He’d given up smoking several years previous. Coffee
he never could, never wanted to. Walking into the coffee shop, any
coffee shop, caused his undergrad years to blaze by his eyes like
some demonic reel-to-reel. Days and nights filled with the
testosterone ramblings of an exceptional mind. Bored to tears by
most of his classes and led by an urge that originated south of his
belt buckle. He drank his way through freshmen English. He snorted
his way through sophomore physics. He fucked his teacher in junior
computer sciences. He led an erotic deviant drugged-out life until
his senior year. Until his first robotics class where he discovered
he was not the most gifted or most intelligent or most moody or
most bored student on the campus. That moment. When he discovered a
challenge above the waistline. That moment that defined his now
miserable career.

He breathed in the smell of coffee and
breathed out. Something sweet in the air as well. Something baked
and glazed. The shop was full of regulars having their orders
filled from memory by the woman behind the counter. She smiled
warmly as she made each drink, handed over each baked good, took
green cash from every customer, gave back exact change and heard
the pretty little plinks of the loose change dropping into the
heavy ceramic dish set out for tips. He stood a line five deep and
waited. By the time he reached the counter he had made a
decision.

“Medium decaf cappuccino with extra foam,
right?”

“Usually,” he said.

She looked at him funny. He smiled in the
most charming way he could.

“I’m feeling like something new.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“I was hoping you could suggest something to
me.”

“Me?”

“You know your way around the espresso
machine. Pick something for me. Anything.”

She thought for a moment. The man in line
behind Brian sighed his impatience.

“How about a large latte with whole
milk?”

“Can you add something to it?”

“Like what?”

“Something to sweeten it. I want it as sweet
as you.”

The words were false and obvious and the
girl behind the counter knew these things and she blushed a little
anyway.

“Trying something new, huh?”

His smile deepened. It bordered on
inappropriate.

“I love new things.”

He said it slowly and let it hang in the
air. Her blush deepened, though she couldn’t say why.

She handed him his drink.

“Anything else Mr. I-Like-New-Things?”

“What’s good to munch on?”

“All of it.”

“You on the menu?”

She couldn’t get any redder. Her smile
widened until Brian thought her face might rend in two. He heard
the man behind him sigh again and heard the scrape of fabric over
skin as the man checked his watch.

“How about a scone?”

“Sure.”

She rang him up.

He handed her money and she handed him back
too much change.

“Scone’s on the house today,” she said. She
smiled. It was a shy smile.

He smiled back.

“Thanks.”

He dropped the coins in the tip jar and
pocketed the bills. He loved free stuff. He loved even more that he
got it by turning on the charm.

He picked a table by the front of the shop
where he could see out the window and be seen and sat down. He took
a sip of coffee. It was strong and sweet. He liked it strong as jet
fuel. He wasn’t as fond of the sweetness of the coffee, but he
could tolerate it. His next cup would be black as the devil’s heart
and sugarless. He bit into the scone. Crumbs fell to the table
which he swept onto the floor with his hand. The coffee and the
scone had never tasted better, he thought.

* * *

Three months ago they had met. He was
lecturing in one of the auditoriums. Juniors mostly. Science majors
taking a robotics elective. The seats were filled three quarters of
the way. That was about right. The beginning of the semester saw
the house full. By the time October arrived about a quarter of the
students had dropped the course or decided to take it in absentia.
Which was fine by him as there were fewer papers to grade. The
lectures were staid. This was the ninth semester he taught this
course. He crafted it the first year, perfected it the second year
and let it run on autopilot for this the third year. He recited
rote teachings that could be just as easily researched in any
decent text on robotics. He let his mouth ramble while his eyes
wandered. Looking for someone lovely, always looking for someone
lovely. There were so many to choose from. So many that wanted to
touch greatness or simply wanted to ensure a decent grade.
Transcripts were everything to some. Transcripts were gods and he
was merely the high priest. So many worshippers at the idol of
academic perfection that he would welcome into his cramped office
stuffed full with a desk, a chair and two bookcases. Bookcases
filled with volumes and bits and pieces of robotic engineering that
he had found over the years, trinkets of memory. These were the
holy relics the worshippers came to see and touch and pay their
reverence. His desk was the altar at which self-respect was
sacrificed in the name of good grades. He had a grading scale. He
assumed all professors did but he rarely went to department parties
or social get-togethers so he couldn’t say with certainty. His only
certainty was that he had one. No matter how poorly they performed
on tests or papers, there were always ways of guaranteeing passage.
Handjobs were Ds. Blowjobs were Cs. Sex was Bs. Anal was As. Once
they understood the lay of the land each girl was free to make her
own choice. Some were repelled. Some were repelled but performed
despite. Those that came for better grades chose their grade, that
limit for which they were willing to debase themselves. Most got C
grades or B grades. There were precious few As. Few were willing.
But few were not none.

He surveyed his lecture landscape as always.
Scanning for the next willing subject. His eyes landed on her for a
moment, then moved on. But they came back. Something about her.
Something about the way she looked. Something hungry. To his
surprise she was not a fool or an incompetent bitch taking his
class because she thought she might skate by. She raised her hand
and asked questions. She turned in papers that were not a chore to
read. She had potential. She would not get above a B unless she
came to him like most others did. But the raw talent was there. Raw
talent was B material. For her.

Come to him she did and react to him she
did.

Slap.

Her right hand squarely across his face with
the glowing red mark to prove it. Not the first time he’d been
slapped. Was certainly not likely to be the last. But this one hurt
more than most. This girl had power in her hands and knew how to
wield it. This girl knew how to slap.

“Don’t do that again,” he snarled.

She responded with her left hand. His face
was now symmetrical. The right side of his face hurt more. He saw
the movement of her body. He turned his face to roll with the slap.
She used her left hand against his right side and he leaned into
the slap inadvertently. His eyes dimmed to a faded color of red
rims. He breathed heavily. Control. It’s all about control, don’t
lose it, don’t lose control. Keep your cool. Keep your hands at
your sides. He flexed his hands and realized they were balled into
fists. He wanted to hit her, to punch her face, to spin her around
and yank down her pants and hit her again in the head and bend her
over and thrust into her and plow her until she begged him to stop,
to stop, to please dear god stop. He closed his eyes and took
another deep breath and opened them again. The girl remained
stock-still and defiant. She cocked her head at him.

“Give me a job,” she said.

“What?”

“You heard me. Give me a job. “

“What kind of job?”

“A TA job.”

“A TA job? You want me to give you a TA
job?”

“Yes.”

“After you hit me?”

“Yes.”

“Twice. Hit me twice.”

“Yes.”

His rage reached its boiling point. There
came a moment when his hands began to lift at his sides in a
preparatory gesture for striking her and he nearly took a step
closer. The moment he thought he’d explode. The absurdity and
brazenness of her request, a non sequitur for their angry tableau.
He burst out laughing.

“What’s your name?”

“Anita.”

“Anita what?”

“Anita Lory.”

“Well Anita Lory, I must say, you certainly
have a monstrous set of balls. Bigger stones than most men I
know.”

“So you’ll do it.”

“No.”

He could see her face scrunch up. Don’t tell
me she’s going to cry, he thought. But she wasn’t. Not cry. Rather
the preparation for another swing. He understood at the right
moment, the last moment.

She swung.

He expected it and knew which hand would do
the striking. Two slaps and he’d already absorbed this girl’s body
language. It made blocking her blow easy. He put up his left hand
and grabbed her arm. Twist it, something inside him said. Twist it
until it snaps. Yet he didn’t. He let go of her arm.

They stared each other down like a pair of
cats circling each other, each seeking the weakest point to attack.
She was lovely. Very lovely. Maybe we can do this differently.
Maybe we can attack this from a different angle and still get
the results we want. Maybe I can still get that ever-so-fine piece
of ass.

“I don’t have a TA job available. But I’ll
tell you what.”

“What?”

“I do have a research project going on. I
could use an assistant.”

She nodded. “When do I start?”

“Right now. Grab your bag. Let’s go get some
coffee.”

“I have a class.”

“Skip it. I’ll write you a note.”

She grabbed her bag and they went out for
coffee where they discussed the research assistant job and many
more things. No piece of ass tonight but the future looks
bright.

* * *

The scone was gone. What crumbs remained
swept onto the floor by his hand. The coffee half-drunk. He glanced
at his watch. Late again. Then again she always was. He teased her
about never being on time saying that if she were lucky she’d be
late to her own funeral. She told him to shut up and then smiled
her sheepish smile. It was coy and coquettish and he loved it. It
made him hard. So different from the girl who slapped him. Her many
faces. She was an animal in bed and it turned him on when she
played the innocent and then became completely unraveled sexually.
She could pleasure him like few others ever had. She did things few
did. She let him do things others had slapped him for.