THE PLACE (Part Two)

So there we were---sitting in a booth at THE PLACE, and Professor Taser had spotted us. I knew he had seen us, because he nodded. I waved back, and said to W.S. “He’s the only guy in here wearing a suit.” Smiling weakly, W.S. responded, “It’s his uniform. He never takes it off. I think he sleeps in it.”

Perceptively peeved, Taser trooped to the bar to see if he could find a stool. There was nothing available. The chef was already throwing people out into the snow; waving his trusty cleaver yelling, “Get out of here. You can’t hang around unless you’re sitting down.” At that, Taser sighed heavily, no doubt thinking, “Any port in the storm,” and headed our way. Throwing a big shadow over our booth, he smiled and said, “Hello.” His hello meant, “I am going to sit down and join you!” We got the hint.

As we nursed our beers, we attempted to be casual and engage him in small talk as he quaffed his first martini. His wife was out of town, he was on his own, and rather than go to the country club, he had opted to come slumming at THE PLACE. His second martini arrived and the small talk became excruciatingly painful. It was obvious that our sole contribution to the evening was the booth.

W.S. tried in vain to impress him with the fact that he was working hard, but having years of practice of fending off these kinds of comments from students, it was obvious that Taser was more interested in fishing the olive out of his drink.

Then it happened. Somehow the conversation turned to me. We had already told him W.S’s life’s story---twice, but that was okay, because he wasn’t listening. At that point, I mentioned that at one point in my life, I had lived in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The man’s eyes lit up. Either he was going to cry---or throw W.S. out of graduate school. Breathlessly, we waited for his reaction.

“I am from Sioux Falls,” he responded. At that point, the two of us mercifully left W.S. totally out of the conversation. I realized that if this evening was to be salvaged, it was totally up to me. Taser happily ordered his third martini, and I cheerfully prattled on about whatever I could conjure up about Sioux Falls. I finally settled upon a spot called McKinnon Park. Between us we described it in agonizing detail. W.S. looked bewildered. From his point of view, a slide is a slide, a swing is a swing, a bench---, but seeing how happy Taser was, I rhapsodized about McKinnon Park. I even told him about when I was caught in the middle of the park during a tornado. He loved it!

By the time dinner was over, Taser happily picked up the check (permitting us to survive financially for another week) and through martini-glazed eyes, viewed my husband with new perspective. W.S. swore that at that moment his academic career began to rise. He declared, “It was like Pickett’s charge had been to the Union at Gettysburg.” From that day on, he held his head high as he stood next to Greg and Todd in Taser’s office.

I didn’t see Professor Taser for several months after our booth episode, but one afternoon W.S. and I did pass him in the hall of the Student Union. He mumbled something as he scurried by. “What did he say?” asked W.S.

“Don’t know,” I lied, because---Taser had remembered my name.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006.

THE PLACE (Part One)

Our favorite restaurant in the downtown area of College Town was a little bar and grill called, THE PLACE. Downtown only had one dusty street, and THE PLACE was the only restaurant in town, so naturally, it was our favorite. We saved our pennies so we could treat ourselves to TGIF (Thank God, it’s Friday) each week, but since THE PLACE was the only spot in town that offered food, as well as booze, we had to get there no later than 5:00 pm. We preferred to sit in one of the booths as far away from the bar as possible---especially on football weekends, but to do that required leaving work early and arriving at 4:30, which wasn’t always feasible, especially when the boss dumped extra work on my desk saying, “Have a nice weekend.”

Every week we’d treat ourselves to a steak with French fries and a salad with Roquefort dressing. Actually, the dressing was French dressing with an occasional piece of Roquefort cheese. Dena, our long-suffering waitress had been with the restaurant for many years. As a matter of fact, I suspected that she emerged from her mother’s womb carrying a tray of dirty glasses.

The owner/chef was a former Army cook, and it always helped our digestion and appetite when he did not show up outside of the kitchen. He was a hairy, shirtless fellow, who wore a long dirty apron and usually carried an extremely big cleaver. No one was allowed in his kitchen, but only a fool would want to know what went on in there.

W.S. had an excellent relationship with all of his professors, but his relationship with Dr. Taser was marginal. For some reason, W.S. found it difficult to carry on a conversation with the man who was his major professor and held his professional future in his hands.

One Friday night we got to THE PLACE just in time to grab the last booth available, not in the back, but up toward the front right alongside the bar, where the overflow crowd would either seat themselves on the stools or be asked to leave. The local law prohibited people from drinking while standing, so the owner/chef was already rudely throwing people out---telling them they could wait in line outside in the snow, but they couldn’t hang around inside unless they were seated.

W.S. had spent the day wrestling with statistical charts and hadn’t bothered to shave or change clothes. I had taken pity on him and hadn’t mentioned more than once, “If we run into anybody you want to impress, you will definitely make an impression.” W.S. insisted, “Look, we travel in different circles than faculty, and the probability of any of them showing up in this dump is infinitesimal at best.”

So, there we were, sipping our beers, when in walked Taser, the professor whose smile or frown made or broke academic reputations and careers. I forgot who saw him first, but I remember that W.S. hit his chin on the edge of the table as he started to slide down in his seat. Too late! Taser had spotted us.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

SCHOOL DAZE (Part Two)

Although Professor Liebling may have been the Beau Brummell of the faculty uniform, Professor Taser was his intellectual and academic equal, and was considered;  “the” professor whom students wanted to be the chairman on their committees. He had written the book that had attracted W.S. to the master’s program in the first place, and my husband was thrilled when Taser consented to chair his committee.

Just having mustered out of the army, where he had been an officer, W.S. was used to a certain amount of positive, superficial and insincere attention, so it was quite a comedown, when the man whom he had induced to become his chairman, had difficulty remembering his name.

“It’s not just my name,” he wailed, “Taser can’t remember anybody’s name.” Commiserating with him, I suggested, “Maybe it’s just you.”

 “No,” he replied. “I know this as a fact. He doesn’t remember Gregg or Todd’s names either. The three of us are in his class, and we three are working on the same research project with him, and he can’t tell us apart.” “How do you know this?” I asked.

“He always insists that the three of us come to his office as a group, claiming that it will save him some time.”

I said, “Well, that makes sense.” “Yeah, but he always insists that we stand in the correct order.”  “Correct order?”

“You got it---standing from left to right---it’s Greg, Todd and then me!”

Being in terror for their academic mortal souls, Taser’s three graduate students did what they were told. Years later when Greg, Todd and W.S. would run into each other at professional meetings, they would still stand in that order. No matter how crowded the room or enlightening the conversation, W.S. always knew his place---the Right! He was always right.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

SCHOOL DAZE (Part One)

Some of you have asked me to explain how W.S. and I landed in the middle of cow dung country where there’s definitely “no place like home.” After serving his required two years in the Army (ours), W.S. had been honorably discharged. He had applied and was accepted into two master’s degree programs. One was at Pennsylvania State University, and the other one was at one of the universities a few hours away from his little, air-polluted hometown in Indiana. Both schools had excellent programs and well-versed faculty.

“The choice was easy,” he explained. “My civilian clothes were at my folk’s house, so I picked the shorter drive.” Consequently, his whole professional future was decided by an odometer, and we ended up in farm country at a State University.

I knew that he had had several girlfriends before me, but their parents didn’t live around the block from his aunt and uncle, so I suspect that my marriage was pedometer related, but I was always afraid to ask.

The professors at State U. were an odd lot at best---brilliant but odd. I often wondered if they were that way because they lived in the middle of nowhere, or if they had chosen to live in the middle of nowhere because it suited their oddness. Webster defines “odd” as “differing markedly from the usual or ordinary,” and that’s what I mean when I say “odd.

In a classic article in social psychology, Bruno Bettelheim describes how some prisoners in World War II concentration camps took on the characteristics of their guards. The graduate program at State U. wasn’t exactly a camp experience, but the one professor whom all of the students admired and emulated was Professor Liebling. Noted for his academic research and wealthy from his consulting practice, Professor Liebling was the dynamic leader with a lack of human relations skills whom all of his students wanted to become.

It was easy to pick out Liebling students because inevitably they would adopt his stylistic posture, his manner of speech, his homilies and his gait. But the tip-off was the “Liebling belt.” There was nothing particularly notable about that belt—it was merely a black pebble-grain, leather belt with an ordinary half-moon silver buckle. However, within weeks of entry into the graduate program, the identical “Liebling belt” encircled the waist of every male student in his classes.

Liebling was “The” professor---the one whose classes were a “must take!” His expertise was in training, and among other things, he taught his students how to make slick presentations targeting presidents of corporations.  When W.S. came home from class wearing his “Liebling belt” I knew that he was going to learn to hold up his end---as well as his pants.

Unlike Socrates, Liebling never pretended to be ignorant of his subject matter, and he was a masterful teacher. So, with Socratic irony, he was sentenced by the powers to be---not to death--- but to Deanship. That made drinking hemlock an attractive alternative.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

STUDENT WIFERY

I was recently married, and “Wifery” had not been part of my college curriculum. So, as I tried to figure out my new role, “Student Wife” was indeed a fitting description. I lived in constant terror that I would commit the ultimate blunder to jeopardize W.S.’s entire professional future. So, when I received an invitation to my first faculty wives open house, I was relieved when Annie, another graduate student wife, invited me to accompany her.

The gathering was being held at the brand new home of a recently arrived faculty member, and neither Annie nor I had been foresighted enough to write down the address. Of course, this was before cell phones or GPS systems had become part of daily life. After driving around the subdivision for 30 minutes, I was elated when we spotted a house with several cars parked in front, and Annie exclaimed, “Here we are!”  Then she added, “We are 20 minutes late. The door’s open, lets just sneak in and mingle.”

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I worked my way through the crowded room to the refreshment table. Pleasantly surprised, I discovered a variety of tea sandwiches, pate, smoked salmon, cheese, fruits and sweets. Filling my plate, and grabbing a glass of wine, I began to relax, and discreetly slid into an empty chair that had been placed into a little alcove next to the living room. Happily, I could sit here until Annie said it was time to go home. But, eating tea sandwiches doesn’t take too long, and after my plate was whisked away by a young woman in a starched white apron, I was left with nothing to do but drink another glass of wine and watch people eat and talk to each other.

Furtively glancing around the room, I made eye contact with a woman sitting on one of the sofas in the living room, and she beckoned me to join her. Desperately wishing that Annie had told me which of these women was our hostess, I smiled and reluctantly walked over and sat next to her, as she greeted me effusively; “It’s so nice to see you!” “It’s nice to see you too,” I responded. Then she asked me, “Have you known Katherine for a long time?” “No, I can’t say I have,” I responded.

Was Katherine our hostess? Perhaps I could find out by asking, “How long have you known Katherine?” “Too long,” she laughed, “She’s my sister.” At that moment a woman of massive girth plopped down next to me on the other side of the sofa. Now I was trapped. “Marie,” said my new friend, “have you met---? “Oh, yes,” I lied, “Marie and I had the pleasure earlier.” Marie, distracted by a waitress bearing another tray of little some things, put a rolled finger-towel in her mouth.

Taking advantage of her predicament, I quickly excused myself and hurried over to Annie, who hissed into my ear, “We’ve got to get out of here. This is the wrong party.” The pate had made her suspicious, and after some discreet questions, she discovered we were one block off course and were now crashing a bridal shower. We had to get out of there before they began opening gifts. The front door was ajar and our hostess was greeting newly arrived guests. Annie whispered, “Keep your head down,” as she shouted, “Thanks!” and dashed past the group at the front door. But before I could follow her, I felt a hand on my arm and found myself face-to-face with our hostess.

“Beautiful affair,” I mumbled. “Well, I am so glad you were able to come,” she smiled, but, “Who in the Hell are you?” hung in the air---heavy and unspoken. How could I explain to this proper lady that I had entered her home, eaten her food and drunk her wine (two glasses) and didn’t even bring a gift? In desperation, I blurted out, “I had a nice visit with Marie!”

Relieved at hearing a familiar name, she responded, “Doesn’t she look marvelous after her face lift?” I could honestly answer, “I hardly recognized her.” My hostess let go of my arm, blushed and asked ever so nicely, “ I am mortified, but I have forgotten your last name. Luckily, at that moment, Annie tooted the car’s horn. So, I said, “Oh, there’s my ride. I must run.”

But halfway down the walk, I turned, waved and shouted. “Don’t worry about it, sometimes that happens to me, too.”

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c  2006