Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

Morgan drank half his beer and drifted back through the hole in the wall, where he found a couple of familiar faces, two more professors from his department.

They seemed to be in the middle of an argument, both very drunk.

“It’s a ridiculous book and you know it, Pritcher. You Irish folk have been skating on Joyce for too long. Finnegans Wake is bullshit. Everyone knows it’s bullshit. Joyce knew it was bullshit when he wrote it. Now get out of my face please, you ridiculous little tit.”

Professor Louis Reams was a lanky, storklike man. Morgan had spoken casually with him a few times and seemed to remember he’d done his dissertation on the complex prosody of Sri Lankan poetry in translation. Morgan suspected Reams had an inferiority complex from having to explain all the time just exactly what his specialty was.

He towered over the much shorter Pritcher, jabbing a finger at his face as he spoke.

Professor Larry Pritcher looked uninterested, dismissed the ranting Reams with a wave of his small, pale hand. Early in grad school, Pritcher had hitched himself to the James Joyce bandwagon and never looked back. He fully enjoyed the massive safety of James Joyce studies and relentlessly needled “fringe” scholarship as new wave, multicultural carnival acts.

“Put a cork in it, Reams,” Pritcher said. “You’re drunk.”

“You have no concept of what it’s like to follow an original thread of thought.”

“This again.”

“Fuck you with bells on.” Reams gave him the up yours gesture.

Pritcher turned to Morgan. “Can you believe this guy? I’m just trying to have a goddamn drink.”

Morgan blinked. He hadn’t expected to be drawn into it. “Well…”

“Exactly,” Pritcher said. “Nobody wants you here, Reams. You’re bringing the party down.”

Morgan noticed that the bulk of the party appeared to be pressing on unhindered.

“The hell you say?” Reams scowled. “That true, Morgan? I’m somehow some kind of party pooper?”

“I don’t think anyone wants to have an argument,” Morgan said.

“So you do think I’m a party pooper.”

“I never said-”

“Fine.” Reams finished his beer in one angry gulp, threw the empty cup on the floor. “Screw you too, Morgan. Easy for you to judge. You’re just passing through. I have to work here for Christ’s sake.”

Reams jostled his way through the crowd for the door, partygoers frowning after him.

“What a prick,” Pritcher said.

“I think he took me wrong,” Morgan said.

“He takes everything wrong. He’s just wrongheaded altogether.”

“Have you seen Valentine?” Morgan gulped beer, liked it, gulped some more.

“Not for a while.” Pritcher cleared his throat, leaned in close to Morgan, spoke low in conspiracy tones. “Look, don’t mention to anyone about Valentine’s being back. He doesn’t want-”

“I know,” Morgan said. “Mum’s the word.”

Dirk Jakes surged out of the party crowd, landed on swaying legs in front of Pritcher and Morgan. “All the goddamn broads at this party must be dykes.”

“Do tell,” Pritcher said.

“Buncha damn lesbos,” Jakes slurred. “You catch what I’m saying there, Morgo-man?” Jakes brayed laughter, yanked Morgan’s sleeve.

Beer splashed over Morgan’s cup. “Dammit. Again?”

“Jesus, sorry, Morgan.” Jakes threw himself in reverse, stumbled back to have a look where he’d spilled the beer. “What the hell? Are those slippers?”

“Forget it,” Morgan said. “You were telling us about the lesbians.”

“Yeah. Every bitch here a damn rug-muncher.”

“Striking out again, eh?” Pritcher’s lips curled into a smug grin.

Morgan thought about the woman in the blue cocktail dress, the one who’d almost plowed into him on the way into the party. He craned his neck, scanned the party for her. Nowhere. Too bad.

“That bimbo at the keg was the worst.” Jakes was still at it. “I know how to pour a fucking beer.”

The party music segued into “Folsom Prison” by Johnny Cash.

Pritcher wrinkled up his whole face like somebody had taken a dump in his cup. “Country music? You must be joking. Who’d put that on?”

Jakes looked stunned. “Are you fucking kidding?”

“What would I kid about?” Pritcher asked.

Morgan wiggled his toes within the damp slippers. They were just getting dry when Jakes had splashed the beer on them. His feet were cold and wet and he was sick of Pritcher and especially Jakes.

“It’s Johnny Cash, man.” Jakes waved his cup in the air like that explained it. “Johnny fucking Cash.”

“So?”

Jakes snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

“Okay, just forget it,” Pritcher said. “I’ve had enough of these drunks, Morgan. I’ve got to get up early anyway.”

“On a Saturday?” Morgan asked.

“I ride my bicycle in the mornings. Good night.”

Morgan waved as he left.

“What a dink,” Jakes said. “Can you imagine not liking Johnny Cash?”

Morgan didn’t say anything.

“I’m going to find some pussy,” Jakes said. “There must be some scratch at this party that isn’t lesbo.” And he was off to it again.

Morgan looked in his cup. He saw no beer and that made him unhappy. He threaded his way back to the keg.

The sports bar girl had moved on. Morgan elbowed a fat guy out of the way and refilled his cup. He wasn’t sure when he might be able to make it around to the keg again, so he threw back the beer fast and filled up again. He took his fresh beer back into the crowd.

The noise and the beer and the party were crowding out thoughts Morgan didn’t want to think. He was starting to feel good, a nice glow in his belly. He even forgot about his wet slippers.

A tap on his shoulder.

He turned and looked down into the soft eyes of the woman in the blue V-neck dress. She looked good.

“You’re Morgan?” she shouted over the music.

He smiled, nodded.

“This way.” She grabbed his elbow, pulled him along.

Morgan followed gladly.

She led him from the party, down the hall. She turned, walked, turned again, walked more, turned a few more times. The building didn’t seem big enough for this. Surely they were going in circles. Morgan couldn’t keep track, but he wasn’t trying too hard.

And he didn’t wonder too hard where he was going. It was good not to make such hard decisions for a change. He allowed himself a brief fantasy, like in Penthouse Forum . She’d take him to a secluded room, where she’d lift her skirt, tug aside her panties, and offer herself to him.

That didn’t happen.

She pushed open a door and led him into a smoky room lit by candles. A man he didn’t know sat deep in a cushy armchair. Valentine sat at the far end of a long, low sofa.

“Ah, good. It’s Professor Morgan.” Valentine puffed savagely on his bong. “Brad, this is Bill Morgan. Bill, Brad Eubanks. He’s the custodian here.”

“It’s Jay, actually.” Morgan shook the man’s hand.

“How do,” Brad said.

“I’m afraid I never got your name,” Morgan said to the woman.

“Annette Grayson.” She offered a slim hand.

Morgan shook. It was soft and cool. He let go reluctantly.

“We teach in the same department,” she said. “I manage the Writing Lab and oversee Freshman Composition. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before now.”

“I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

She pointed at Morgan’s beer cup. “You don’t actually want that, do you?”

“Don’t I?”

“Let me fix you something for a grown-up.”

She produced a bottle of vodka from thin air. Where had that been, between the couch cushions? Tonic next and a lime. Morgan was still reeling from the sleight of hand, when Annette pushed the vodka tonic at him. He took it, drank. Made the whole thing disappear presto chango.