“EVERYTHING IS LOCAL. We are part of an urban farming collective,” said the man in the small tent. He was shirtless under denim overalls.
Every Saturday, scores of vegans, organic-food buffs, and just plain old hungry people descended onto the Havenport Green to sample the goods at the farmers’ market. Rows of tents held a multitude of vibrantly colored produce as well as spices and baked goods.
“Where do you farm in a city?” Eph asked the tent’s proprietor.
“Abandoned lots, mostly, increasing the city’s green-space footprint. We call ourselves guerrilla farmers.”
“Huh.” Eph wondered what Big Mike would make of this.
D’Arcy picked out a few tomatoes. “That’s amazing. So good for the community.” She handed the tomatoes to the man, whose gray ponytail reached the small of his back. “We’ll take these.”
They wandered the stalls, shimmying through the crowds of people carrying shopping totes made of recycled material. They walked past tall stalks of brussels sprouts, pots of virgin hand-pressed olive oils, and trays of vegan samosas. Eph noticed that just as many people were photographing food as buying it. Everywhere he looked, people were lining up batches of arugula or colorful rows of peppers just so and capturing the images on their phones.
“Why are people photographing vegetables?” Eph asked.
D’Arcy had to think about this. “Because they’re pretty?”
Eph grunted. Back on the farm, the last thing that might have occurred to him would have been to take pictures of a pile of peanuts. “But when would you look at them? Are you going to be sitting around a year from now and suddenly have the urge to look at some rutabagas you saw twelve months ago?”
“No, I think it’s more that people like to post photos of food on Instagram.”
“I don’t follow. Do other people want to look at your food pictures? That seems even less compelling.” Eph watched as a nearby woman took out her phone and photographed a stacked pile of organic corn. “Seems vaguely snobby. Food snobbery!”
“Excuse me, but isn’t that small-batch Guatemalan coffee you are drinking?”
“I’m drinking it, not digitizing it. Besides, it was all they had.”
“I think you are losing your mind.”
“You may have a point.”
Finding a bench under a large elm tree, they sat down against the trunk and snacked on some scones. “Okay, let me give it another shot,” said Eph, nodding at D’Arcy’s kombucha. He took a swig and winced. “Yeah, no.”
“Your loss. Probiotics are so good for you.”
“And what are those again?”
“You know, these things … they’re in your gut … they do healthy things.…”
“While I’m at it, these scones are a bit dry, aren’t they?”
“That’s the way scones are, my dear.”
“Then why do people eat them?”
“They just do. Jesus, could you be any more of a dick today?”
“But I’m your dick.”
“Yes, you are.” D’Arcy smiled and leaned into Eph’s shoulder.
They sat in silence for a minute, letting the beautiful New England fall day distract them from the events hanging over Eph’s head. Eph inhaled deeply, trying his best to relax. The aroma of autumn’s sweet decay was in the air.
“The whole thing is so damned silly,” D’Arcy said. Eph didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. So much for relaxing. “Most of those kids weren’t even in your class.”
“I know, but I’m getting the distinct impression that’s beside the point.”
In the two weeks since the “incident,” Eph had continued to hold class. Attendance was down by a third, with Ifeellike and the other agitants noticeably absent. A small crowd of protesters picketed outside the entrance to Grafton before each class. They chanted and generally harassed those entering the building. The one with the red hair was always there, chanting into a megaphone. The assigned security guard prevented them from entering, but they were quite content outside anyway. Better exposure, Eph assumed. The chanting could be heard inside the building, which not only disrupted his class, but also no doubt annoyed the entire English Department. Except for Toes, Eph thought. He could swear Toes was enjoying the whole thing.
“Hey, ho, racist profs have got to go!”
One morning, WELX, the local television station, showed up with a reporter. She logged a short piece, but it thankfully never made the air.
The video from the class, which Eph knew had been carefully edited to put him in the worst possible light, emerged in social media channels. @FakeUncleMiltie even tweeted a link with the comment:
Racism is everywhere, even here at progressive Devon U! #DevonShame
Eph noticed the #DevonShame hashtag had started trending both locally and statewide. He also noticed he now had forty-two ratings on Rate My Professor, and that his average had dropped to 2.6.
It had not been a good week.
“Listen, you need to be careful with Martika Malik-Adams,” D’Arcy said.
“Yes, I’ve been warned not to look at her pants too closely.”
“No, I mean it. You don’t want to be in her crosshairs.”
“Why, exactly? I’m sure she does valuable work. I know what I said before, but I agree this school needs diversity.” Eph firmly believed diversity was a noble pursuit, even if he was concerned it had become a game of “check the box” on skin pigmentation.
D’Arcy smiled. “Eph, I love you, sweetheart, but sometimes you can be so damned naïve. Do you know how much Martika makes? Five hundred and seventy thousand dollars a year. I’ll kill you if you share that with anyone, but I see the papers that cross Milton’s desk. Martika is the third-highest-paid employee at Devon after Milton and the AD. She has to show something for that. Think of her as a hammer looking for nails, and right now, white boy, you are a nail.”
“Yeah, Titus said something along those lines, although without the nail part … and without the white part. Say, you’re suddenly sounding a different tune.”
“I don’t take back anything, but I’ve seen her operate. She spends a lot of time in Strauss’s office, and I think even he’s afraid of her. I just need you to take this very seriously. I know I don’t have to remind you what an important time this is for you.”
Eph had been trying not to think about tenure. “Can we go back to organic food and guerrilla farming? This is depressing, while that was merely annoying.”
Just then, they spotted Toes emerging from a nearby aisle. Eph groaned quietly and lowered his head, hoping not to be spotted. Too late.
“Now, now, I’m sure he means well,” D’Arcy whispered.
“Eph!” Toes cried. “Fancy seeing you here.”
They stood. D’Arcy smiled while Eph looked dyspeptic, as if the effort to keep pretending this was just another pleasant day was just too much.
“Hello, Barrett.” They shook hands. Toes had these really small hands, smooth and hairless, and his fingers wouldn’t wrap all the way around Eph’s. It was like shaking hands with a little boy. Eph waited to see if Toes would continue on his way, but he just stood there. Reluctantly: “Barrett, you know D’Arcy, don’t you?”
“Sure, I think we’ve met. You work in Stockbridge, don’t you?”
“She’s President Strauss’s assistant,” Eph said.
“I’m impressed. That must keep you busy!”
“It does,” D’Arcy replied.
“Hey, have you guys tried these small-batch plum muffins? They’re unbelievable.”
“No, we missed those somehow,” Eph said.
“Well, here, try one!” Toes pulled one out of his bag and offered it to Eph.
“That’s very nice of you, but I’m still working on this tasty scone here.” Eph gestured to the puffy yellow pastry, which was missing only a single bite.
“How are those? I’ve been meaning to try them.”
“They are excellent, if you also like shredding the Sunday New York Times and eating that.”
“Oh, ha, funny. Okay, no scones.”
They stood there for a few moments in awkward silence. Eph wondered how much work it took to maintain a man bun. When the hell is Toes going to move along? C’mon, just put one bootee after the other.…
“Ah, Eph, I’ve been meaning to tell you…”
Here we go.
“I feel just awful about what happened.… I’m sure this will all get sorted out.” Toes was practically oozing sincerity. Or not. He was definitely oozing something.
“I’m sure it will. Thank you.”
“It’s a shame we couldn’t have had our committee’s guidelines in place sooner … it might have helped.”
“I think we should establish a committee to study the recommendations from your committee.”
“We could certainly entertain … oh, that was a joke, wasn’t it?”
“Probably depends on whom you ask.”
There was another long pause. Eph was committed to not further abetting the conversation, while Toes looked as if he was struggling with what to say next.
“You know, Foucault said that ‘justice must always define itself.’”
“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind.” Whatever that fucking means.
“Well, you guys have a great day!”
“Nice to meet you!” said D’Arcy, calling after Toes as he retreated. Squish squish squish.
“I don’t want the rest of this thing.” Eph threw the scone at a nearby trash bin. It bounced off the rim, onto the grass.
“Missed!” said a small boy standing nearby, licking an ice cream cone.
“Toes can take his Pynchon, his Foucault, and his stupid little shoes and shove them all up his bony ass.” Eph walked over to pick up the errant scone. This time he tossed it underhand from just a couple of feet. It bounced off the rim again, back onto the grass. “Shit!”
“Honey, let’s find you a doughnut. I won’t tell anyone.”