Appearing very antsy, Father Ed got up from his seat causing the metal feet of the chair to make a racquet against the paving stones. He walked over and leaned his lower back against the short stone wall as he took out one of his cigars, perhaps to help him relax. Still contemplative, he began, “Joe, unfortunately I needed to make some concessions to get ICC off the ground. One of those was a requirement, by some godforsaken bureaucratic government agency, that we have a social justice department,” he said lighting his Camacho Ecuador with an old banged-up Zippo lighter that he had carried with him since either Korea or Nam.
He turned away from me, faced the mountains, and continued. “I judged wrong, thinking one small governmental intrusion into ICC wouldn’t affect us much.” He hung his head while supporting his body with his outstretched arms leaning on the wall, his cigar in hand.
Still seated, I replied, “The one rotten apple that spoils the bunch, huh?”
He suddenly whipped around, his face hard as stone, pointing his finger at me as smoke trailed from his cigar. “Professor Dietrich represents all that is vile and reprehensible in Washington,” he boomed like God Himself. “Bunch of Pecksniffian pharisaic poltroons.”
“Hey, Father, you have been watching too many re-runs of Bill O’Reilly’s Word of the Day segment,” I said trying to get Father to calm down somewhat.
His face and demeanor allayed a bit. “I didn’t always agree with him, but he is a good man and really did try to ‘look out for the folks,’ as he liked to say. I believe his and my father’s ancestors were from the same county on that enchanting emerald Isle,” as a small momentary pensive smile appears on his face.
“Washington has ‘encouraged’ all the colleges to enact a department of social justice,” Father continued. “Dietrich was handpicked by some lackey in DC to head up the department. He also has some minions running around campus—the Hitler Jugend I call them—doing his spying for him.”
“Yeah, I thought I’ve seen some ‘students’ all dressed the same in a crisp paramilitary style,” I said remembering the khaki pants with black military web belts, sky blue open collared button-down shirts with epaulettes, and black Corfam boots.
“Those are his minions. They attend a variety of classes and report back to Dietrich regarding any social justice violations.”
“And just what is considered a social justice violation?” I inquired with a sarcastic tone.
Father leaned over, placing both hands on the bistro table, and, half chewing his cigar at the side of his mouth, attempted to define the problem. “That’s the trouble. The whole thing is a phantasm, a bowl of Jell-O; it keeps changing. We can’t get the government to give us a hard-and-fast definition—and it seems they want it that way.”
“I get it. That way they can accuse and prosecute anyone who is intolerant, unfair, judgmental, or offensive in their eyes. In other words, anyone who follows Judeo-Christian morality, in short - biblical principles,” I blurted. I was starting to get heated up.
Father stood and walked to the wall, leaning back against it. “Dietrich knows what you have been teaching and has his eye on you.”
“I don’t have any of the ‘Hitler Youth’ in my class,” I exclaimed, half asserting, half questioning as I stood up to defend my position.
“Joe,” Father chortled, coughing on his own cigar smoke. “Everyone on this small campus now knows what you are teaching. You don’t need any overt or covert spies in your room. Besides there have already been a couple of articles in the Veritas Beacon.”
I had totally forgotten Thad’s article series about my Matrix course. “Do you want me to back off?”
“Absolutely not! Besides your conscience wouldn’t let you,” Father said, half laughing as he released a big plume of smoke. “I’m just giving you a heads up on Dietrich and company.”
I was getting ticked in more ways than one. “Yeah, and the government numpties, to use your expression, are cultivating—no championing—Sharia Law. Hell, Minneapolis and Dearborn— excuse me, Dearbornistan—as well as a slew of other cities, are now rife with Muslim ghettos. Like England and France, the police give them a wide berth.”
“Hey, Joe, calm down, you’ll blow a gasket.” Father laughed.
With that I heard a creaky iron gate open. The front end of the patio had a low wrought-iron picket-style fence with a gate that extended from the entrance wall of the coffee shop to the stone wall overlook. Father immediately recognized the young man coming through that iron gate. “Hey, Fred, come on over; I’d like to introduce you to a close friend of mine who teaches here.”
Father leaned over toward me and quietly informed me that Fred was our waitress, Cindy’s, husband he had mentioned earlier.
Fred appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He was clean shaven with charcoal black hair and a touch of premature gray starting to show. He was average build and well groomed, very GQ, wearing a sporty causal-style jacket and pants.
“Fred, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Joseph Lucci, who is a new professor this year on our staff.”
We cordially shook hands. Fred had a good firm grip but not a crusher trying to prove something.
“Fred, Joe is teaching a new course called the Matrix Exposed,” Father stated proudly with a big smile.
Fred looked at me and said, “Oh, you are the guy that’s causing all the disturbance on campus!”