Malarkey gives up grading papers.There are only so many bare butts one prof can deal with at one time and he heads to the English department where he’s been summoned by Herr Rabinowitz who, as Malarkey enters the office, sits behind a very misogynistically messy desk. Malarkey’s desk is also messy, but at least it’s controlled messiness and not misogynistic. The difference between the two is simple: Controlled Messiness is evinced by an organization in which the Controller knows absolutely where things are regardless of the apparent messiness; Uncontrolled Messiness is akin to slovenliness, which, in Rabinowitz’s case, is equal to his measure.
“So, why have you summoned me here, mi’lord?” Malarkey asks, arms crossed in front of him as a way of protecting himself against anything bacterial that might be hiding in the stacks of messiness on Rabinowitz’s desk or that might spring to life from anything he may have touched.
“You need to take over Professor Poshlust’s grad creative writing class for two weeks.”
Before Malarkey gets into the reasons why he has to do this, the Reader needs to know a little bit about Poshlust who was recruited by a former Dean whom the latter met when he was Dean of Humanities at Quincunx College outside Portland, Oregon. When Poshlust arrived at Citrus City College, he came assuming he was a household name even though most of the faculty never heard of him. It wasn’t as if John Barth or Kurt Vonnegut or Philip Roth or Robert Coover or Malcolm Bradbury or John Fowles were dropped on our doorstep and over time, the English faculty was forced to listen to his two favorite lines which were, “I’m not just window dressing” and “When I went to Iowa,” the latter phrase being a shibboleth for all of us to know that decades ago he attended an MFA program that allegedly put all those who graduated from such a program immediately into the Pantheon of Great American Writers. Of course, that would exclude such American writers as Pynchon and Markson, Heller and Berryman all of whom somehow managed to become great writers without ever attending Iowa. He also looked with enormous disdain on any writer who didn’t write like he did. In other words, experimental writers were eschewed as merely playing “mind games.” Of course, that suggestion was patently ludicrous since it included but was not limited to such “mind game” writers as: Abish, Arlt, Aragon, Beckett, Borges, Barth, Calvino, Coover, Cortázar, and just about every other writer living or dead whose last name fell in between the letters A and Z who realized that copying Balzac was not only unimaginative, but, well, facile-minded.
But Poshlust was always promoting himself and was especially adept at name-dropping even though many of the names he dropped were as unknown as his own. Even the president of his former college once opined that, “He was the master of short story writing.” Whether the president ever read Poshlust is debatable and those who had read his writing weren’t soon forgetting Chekhov, Poe, or Joyce, not to mention Borges, but he had fashioned an image that seemed to precede him wherever he went and the college lauded him with award upon award (not to mention salary increases upon salary increases) simply because no one ever really took the time to read his work. Of course, when Poshlust exclaimed in a faculty meeting that he thought Stephen King was as “good as Faulkner,” Malarkey knew the entire department was fucked.
“You mean, Professor I’m-not-window-dressing, ass-kissing? That Professor Poshlust?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Why me? There are plenty of other lackeys here who can teach that course.”
“Yes, but you’re at the top of the lackey list. Anyway, he’s been invited to teach at Stanford for two weeks and I need you to take over his class.”
“Oooo. Stanford. Is he now sucking off the tit of the Stanford Cardinal even though cardinals have no tits? Seems he’s always being invited somewhere. How’s he do that, mi’lord?”
“Because he’s an accomplished writer.”
“And me?”
“You’re not.”
“How sad? How very, very sad. So, when do I get this plum teaching assignment?”
Rabinowitz looks at his watch.
“Two hours.”
“Brilliant. Plenty of prep time.”
“Prep time, schmep time. Do whatever you want. I’m busy.”
Rabinowitz waves him off and as Malarkey leaves, he winks at the Reader who should know that something Malarkian is in store.
Now while all this is going on, the Reader finds Liliana sitting on a park bench at nearby Hart Park reading a copy of Virginia Woolf’s Shorter Fiction; however, her attention is soon drawn from Kew Gardens to several young mothers who are playing with their children: on the slide, on a swing, on a merry-go-round, in a sandbox. She ponders that sight, those sights, for several moments, looks at her watch, closes her book and leaves the park. The Reader can speculate on what Liliana is pondering. In the unlikely event the Reader has no clue as to what she’s pondering it will manifest in due time.
It just so happens (as is often the case in fiction) the class Liliana is on her way to attend is the same class Malarkey is going to teach and as Malarkey enters the classroom, the dozen or so students, including Liliana, are sitting in a circle chatting about whatever. (It’s not important to the storyline.) Malarkey walks in with his computer tucked under his arm, immediately sees Liliana and they acknowledge each other with complementary raised eyebrows. Make of that what you will. Pretend they’re close-ups and they’re re-enacting the eating scene out of Tom Jones, but without the food. As Malarkey downloads a YouTube site, he addresses the class:
“I’m not introducing myself since, as I’ve been told, my reputation precedes me.” He looks at Liliana who looks back and smiles.
“For the next two weeks, I’m subbing for Mister Poshlust while he pretends to be an important American writer who’s been invited to Stanford. As all of you are starving writers or eventually will be I’d like to play what should be or become your national anthem.”
Malarkey flips off the lights and clicks on the YouTube site and the Reader hears the Bee Gees sing the four-minute version of “Stayin’ Alive.” Malarkey doesn’t really need to restate what he’s restated, but if he has to restate it the Reader should watch the same excerpt on YouTube while s/ he reads the rest of this chapter: (https://
As the students (and the Reader) watch and listen to clips of Saturday Night Fever, Malarkey starts dancing from the front of the classroom toward the back. At first, the class looks on somewhat astonished by his behavior, but, soon, one at a time, the students get up and start dancing as Malarkey “boogies” his way toward Liliana and the two of them dance as intimately as two can dance in a classroom without violating Citrus City College’s rules of faculty classroom behavior.. Malarkey attempts, as best as he can, to imitate John Travolta; however, imitating Travolta at his age has enormous medical repercussions, but he does his best.
After a short time, he and Liliana turn and “bump” bums at which point the music and the classroom scene fade out and Malarkey and Liliana are now seen lying nude in her bed. A Voluspa Tuberosa di Notte burns. Incense wafts through the room. The Bee Gees play “How Deep Is Your Love.” No pun intended. Malarkey looks lovingly at Liliana, but is clearly out of breath; she, not so much, and the Reader has to read his breathlessness in his dialogue.
“Did you?”
“I did.”
“Was it?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Did I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“You know, I could get sacked for this.”
“For what?”
“This.”
“But I said I did.”
“I know.”
“So, don’t worry about getting sacked.”
“I’m not sure we’re on the same page here.”
“No, we’re not.”
She rolls on top of him and they kiss.
End of chapter.