Love in the Time of Climate Change (27 page)

“For God's sake, Trevor, don't go socialist on me again. If I hear that ‘workers united' crap one more time I'm going to puke. I swear to God, Trevor, I mean it. Projectile vomit all over you. And I guarantee it will not be pretty!”

Trevor ignored her. “The world's got this burning, gushing wound in its side and we're just mopping up the floor while we look around for a goddamn band-aid. As if that's going to solve the problem. It's bullshit.”

“So what do you suggest? Get rid of the endowment so we don't have a scholarship fund? Throw kids out of school? Make them add a fourth shit job to their crazy week? Wow! That will really help! You'll have all us students
on your side for that one. That's sure to bring on the revolution!”

“Status quo is over. Reject the dominant paradigm!”

“I am so sick of the same tired old bumper-sticker bullshit!” Hannah had fire in her eyes. I had never seen her so worked up, nor heard her language so crude. “Damn, Trev, we drive to school together. You're texting me all the time. You can't live without your phone. You buy a new hippie hat every week!”

“Deep breath, Hannah,” I cautioned. “Let's keep this civil.” You could attack a man's politics to your heart's desire but what he wore on his head was off-limits.

“Dude, if I thought for a moment I could change things by not driving, by not texting, by not getting stuff, I would do it in an instant!”

“Then what's your solution? Come on, Trevor. You're the brilliant one, name-dropping Sagan and Plato. Come on, tell us what to do? Short of which way to slit my wrists.”

It was a tense moment. To butt in and say something … or keep my distance and hold my tongue. The perpetual dilemma.

On cue, Abbie, always the vibes watcher, always the one to bring us back together, always catching folks as they fell, softly raised her voice and began singing the classic Beatles song:

You say you want a revolution

Well, you know

We all want to change the world
…

Hannah's face relaxed and she chimed in:

Shooby doo wop, oh, shooby doo wop
.

Abbie and Hannah continued, their voices beautiful together:

You tell me that it's evolution

Well, you know

We all want to change the world
…

With the exception of Trevor with the downcast eyes and slumped head, we all began singing. All of us. It never ceases to amaze me how everyone, no matter what generation, reveres the Beatles.

But when you talk about destruction

Don't you know that you can count me out
…

Suddenly Trevor leapt up, shouted a loud “In!” put his arm around Hannah and added his deep bass to what was really quite a spectacular
a capella
mix.

The whole lot of us joined him, out of our seats dancing, swinging arms, holding on to each other, and singing at the tops of our voices for all the college to hear—like it or not!

Don't you know it's gonna be (shooby doo)

All right
.

God, if only life could always be like this. Engaged intelligent conversation, activism, a little bit of edge and tension, and then all ends happily in song and dance and hugs and joy. A Hollywood musical with a happy ending. Glee on TV. Utopia.

The song ended. I turned and glanced out the meeting room window and there, wouldn't you know it, was the dean peering in, a quizzical, bemused look on his face. His timing, as always, impeccable.

Another day in paradise.

S
AMANTHA HAD A LESSON PLAN
on oceans that she was developing for her class. With complex vocabulary and high-level math, she was looking for advice. Her concern was that it might be fatally plagued by TMI—Too Much Information. That her students' attention would stray, that the project was doomed for failure.

“I want their minds to wonder, not wander,” she said. We were standing at the door after class, looking at the fading end of November light and the soft beginnings of snow sticking to the white pines behind the greenhouse.

“Fact. They're in the seventh grade. Their minds do both. Given the ride they're on I find it incredible that you ever get them to stay on track at all.”

“It's not much different from what you do.”

I shook my head. “A lot harder.”

“I'm not so sure.”

“God, I can't imagine, even for a day, teaching middle school. That age is so insanely out of my league. Believe me, college is a much easier gig. Absolutely no comparison.”

“You'd be surprised. Students are students,” Samantha said.

“I still don't see how you do it. As it is, I can barely hold this age. Case in point: one of my students last week told me I had a significant ‘Cassandra complex.'”

“Cassandra complex?”

“Yeah. CC. Just what I need; a new acronym to worry about. Do you know who Cassandra was?”

“I don't. Should I?” Samantha asked.

“I had to google it when I got home. Terrible thing to be labeled a classical reference by a student and not have a clue as to what they were talking about.”

“So who was she?”

“A princess of Troy from Greek mythology. Stunningly attractive. The second-most-beautiful woman in the world,” I said.

“Who was the first?”

“Not a clue,” I said as I looked away, avoiding her eyes.

“Go on.”

“So Apollo, the sun god, had the hots for her and granted her the gift of prophecy. The power of foresight.”

“Uh oh. If I know anything about Greek mythology this is not going to go down well.”

“Bingo. There was a catch,” I said.

“Duh.”

“Apollo, of course, wanted her to sleep with him.” Self-editing was never my forte. I could feel myself straying into TMI land.

“I could see that coming,” she said.

“And she wouldn't.”

“Of course not.”

“Which did not make for a pleasant situation.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Samantha said.

“So Apollo placed a curse on her. Her predictions, all of which would still come true, were never to be believed. Never. For her and all of her descendants. She foresaw the
tragedy of the Trojan Horse and warned her people, and they were like, yeah, whatever, you may be hot but you're crazy. Bring it on.”

Samantha was silent.

“The girl in the back evidently thinks I'm an arrogant know-it-all jerk who is convinced that if the world just believed me all would be saved. I was smacked down by a student.”

“I'm not sure it was a smack-down. It may have been the opposite.”

“It was a smack-down. And anyway, what if she's right? I'm forever cursed. Destined to be a vocal Cassandra.”

“Nonsense.
I
believe you. So do your students. You're a good teacher. In fact, you're a great teacher. All the great teachers I've ever had passionately thought they were right. Most often, it turned out they were. And, unfortunately, not everyone always believed them.”

Once more I avoided her eyes and looked down.

“So,” she said. “Back to ancient Greece. She was given the choice to sleep with him, keep the gift of foresight, and have the world believe her. And she just said no?”

“So the story goes.”

“Wow, and to think I gave it up to Harvey Moshman on his living room floor just because he knew all the words to the new Cold Play album.”

Don't ask for details
, my brain screamed, neon signs flashing “TMI” growing stronger and stronger.

“I certainly would have done Apollo,” she continued. “I mean, being the sun god and all, he must have been hot. Probably a little full of himself. Lots of women, goddesses even, fawning all over him. But goodness, the gift of prophecy. Tough to turn that one down.”

“I don't know,” I said. “Curse and blessing.”

“So would you have?” she asked.

“Would I have what?”

“Would you have slept with him?”

Please, dear God, don't have the dean walk in on this conversation
.

“Apollo? I don't think so. I mean, sun god or not, I'm just not that kind of guy.”

Samantha laughed. “Okay. If you were Cassandra, and you could keep the ability to see the future and, most importantly, be believed.
Then
would you have slept with him?”

I took one deep breath and two steps backwards and came down hard on the front desk, sitting on my hands. I was terribly afraid of where they would go if I left them to their own devices. I looked at Samantha. She was wearing her hair in pigtails, braided with blue and red yarn—courtesy, I was sure, of one of her adoring students. Her freckles ran down her face like drops of rain. Rivers of freckles. As always when I was around her I was completely, totally unhinged.

I didn't want to sleep with Apollo. I didn't want to sleep with Cassandra. I wanted to sleep with
her
. How obvious was that?

“Think about it,” she continued. “If you knew what the future held, if you truly knew it, and everyone believed you. Everyone. Think of your power to do good in the world. To change history. Think about The Issue. You'd be a superhero!”

It really didn't seem like much to ask. One roll in the hay with the sun god and I save the world.

Or do I? What if I see the future and it's one of devastation and war and famine and hot, hot, hot, and I tell people, and they believe every word I say, but then they go right on doing what they're doing, right on riding the wave to the end of the world. Cassandra Complex or not, how was that any different from where I was right now?

“Do I really have to sleep with Apollo?” I asked. “Can't I at least have Cassandra instead?”

She laughed and glanced at her cell phone. “Jeez, gotta run. See you Thursday.”

I watched her walk out the door and into the swirling snow, pigtails bobbing, promising myself to download every Cold Play album that evening, and wondering how the hell Harvey Moshman could ever have let her get away.

O
N
W
EDNESDAY AFTERNOONS
after teaching, my colleagues and I unwind by playing darts. We set up a board at the far end of our science department's conference room. To make it more interesting and to put a pseudo-intellectual spin on the game, we make our own targets and place them over the real board. That way, we're not throwing at numbers, we're zinging darts at things we despise.

We're very proud of ourselves. We consider it a creative way to take out our aggressions, at least some of them, while cultivating the always-important co-worker bond.

It's not for everyone. What started off as a somewhat friendly way to unwind, has taken a serious turn toward the cutthroat. Our competitive juices flow, testosterone levels rise considerably, and trash-talking reaches astronomical heights.

The botany professor used to play but she's recently bowed out, citing the obscene amount of “manly mayhem” that the game has devolved into. The real reason is that she sucks at darts.

Three of us play regularly: the natural history professor
(a.k.a. the Lunatic), the anatomy/physiology professor (smartest guy in the school), and yours truly.

Each week we take turns making the board. There are a few set rules. No images of students, no colleagues, nothing that could be construed (by us, of course!) as overtly offensive.

Other than that, we're good to go.

The targets used to be simple, something that took little thought and even less time to make. Perhaps a few words, a picture from the net, a page cut out from a magazine. Nothing more. Arranged on a round sheet of paper and pinned to the board with point values stuck in random places.

Those days are O-V-E-R, over! Target making has assumed a life of its own. What used to take a few minutes now requires drafts, prototypes, even feedback from the art department. Those who don't play poke their heads in after class on Wednesday just to see the week's image. Last semester, the natural history professor skipped out on an entire lecture because he was physically unable to drag himself away from his board making.