Mad Diary of Malcolm Malarkey, page 3
“Professor Malarkey?” the soon to be introduced protagonist asks.
Malarkey opens the door completely, looks at his nameplate and traces his finger across his name. Then he looks at her and raises his eyebrows once again.
“My name is Liliana Liliano.”
The alliteration doesn’t get lost on Malarkey and channeling his inner Humbert replies, “Li-li-ana. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Li-li-ana: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lil. Lee. Ana.”
“Pardon me?”
“Sorry. Name reminded me of an old friend.”
“Yes. I’m an adult student.”
He looks at her from head to toe.
“Oh, I can tell,” Malarkey answers, raising his eyebrows.
“Actually, I’m a new graduate student and I was told you’re my advisor.”
“Right. Then this is an advisory visit?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, I advise you to find another adviser. Ciao.”
He closes the door. One might think this a rude gesture on Malarkey’s part, but after decades of teaching, Malarkey has discovered that students generally don’t want advice and merely go through the motions of listening to any and Malarkey is eager to honor their wishes.
Lilliana knocks again and he opens it.
“I see your reputation precedes you.”
“Really? And what reputation might that be?”
“That you’re an asshole,” she says, smiling.
“He’s an asshole. He’s an asshole.”
“Who said that?”
“It’s my macaw, Godot. He tends to repeat phrases.”
“So, I’m an asshole,” Malarkey repeats, non-plussed.
“Yes, an asshole.”
“He’s an asshole,” replies Godot. “He’s an asshole.”
“Okay, Godot that’s enough.”
“Why do you call him Godot?”
“He tends to repeat himself. So, where did you discover that I’m an asshole?”
“On Rate My Professors.”
“Ah, yes that bastion of undergraduate credibility, the Wikipedia of fatuity, the Google of sagacity and the last pit stop for soon-to-be-fired faculty. Well, in that case, do come in.”
As she walks in, Malarkey looks at the Reader and raises his eyebrows once again as if this day might be one of his most memorable.
“How can one ignore someone so enchanting?” he asks the Reader.
From Liliana’s point of view, she sees books piled up everywhere and spilling out of the bookshelves (Malarkey knows this seems like a cliché, but, in fact, it’s not; if a professor’s office doesn’t have books piled everywhere, then the student, whose parents will have invested hundreds of thousands of dollars over four years, will have felt cheated, so one cannot overlook the deconstruction component of that); there are papers literally stacked in gigantic five-foot piles with cobwebs draping them (this too might sound like an exaggeration, but it’s not, since professors often have too many classes to teach, with too many students in each rendering their research or creative time effectively worthless and only superseded by their paltry salary); Art Deco ashtrays have layers of Cohiba and Toscanello butts in them; and roach clips litter the floor accounting for the curious scent of vintage weed. The walls are lined with photos and paintings of nude women. All sorts of nude women in all sorts of provocative poses and multicolored renditions. In one corner of Malarkey’s office there’s a five-foot statue of a nude woman wearing a Shamrock Green, Guinness Cap and in another, Malarkey’s macaw, but Liliana is attracted to one 4’x4’ dry-mounted black and white photo that shows sixty naked women on bicycles except for the bicycle helmets they’re wearing. To top it all off, the “classic” framed poster of A Clockwork Orange with Alex peering down hangs above Malarkey’s desk. Liliana seems a bit taken aback by the overwhelming nudity of it all. Malarkey plops down in his antique wooden swivel chair.
“Please, have a seat.”
She starts to sit, but before she does, he dusts off some breadcrumbs that had been there since the late 60s.
“Sorry. Baguette remnants from the last time Rimbaud visited.”
“Rimbaud?”
“Yes, he came for advice about poetry.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“More money in selling firearms in Ethiopia.”
“I see. Are you a nudist?” she asks still surveying the pervasive nudity on the walls.
“No, but I’m a naturalist. So, what can this asshole do for you? Aren’t you a bit old for grad school?”
“Aren’t you a bit old to be asking that question?”
“Right. I’m sure there’s a bloody law against saying that so please don’t report me to the administration. I spend too much time there as is, so let me rephrase that question in a more politically correct way: why do you want to study literature?”
Malarkey cups his chin in his hand and looks at her, blinking his eyelids and feigning interest in the answer.
“Because I like to read and write.”
“Right. Well, toss in finger painting and you’ve got a hat trick.”
Liliana ignores him. She’s heard the tales from other graduate students, read about him on the internet, overheard other professors and secretaries making disparaging comments about him, knows about his Malarkeyisms blah, blah, blah.
“I was told you’re the expert in post-modern fiction.”
“Nope, don’t know a fucking thing about it. Forgot most of it in the late sixties. Too much time with Kesey and Southern and Brautigan … on the bus,” Malarkey smiles and gestures as if he’s toking.
“I see. That’s not what I was told.”
“Who told you that?”
“Professor Rabinowitz.”
“Rabinowitz?”
“Yes.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“He’s an asshole,” replies Godot. “He’s an asshole.”
“Sorry for that. Please excuse Godot.”
“I see. Is that a departmental condition?”
“What?”
“He’s an asshole,” replies Godot. “He’s an asshole.”
“Endemic. You’re lucky you got out of his office with your clothes on?”
Malarkey opens a drawer, takes out a half-empty bottle of Bushmills and wiggles the bottle at her. She shakes her head. He puts it back.
“And why is that?”
“He’s got a thing for brunettes.”
“Has he.”
“He has.”
“He’s an asshole,” replies Godot. “He’s an asshole.”
“And you?”
“To women your age, I’m merely wallpaper.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning no one really pays much attention to wallpaper, do they? After a while, it’s just something to cover up a wall. It begins to fade, then peel and, eventually, has to be removed and tossed in the bin in favor of a hand job. Sorry, I meant a paint job.” He smiles.
“Did it ever occur to you that some women may prefer wallpaper?”
“And why might that be?”
“Maybe it’s more vibrant than mere paint,” she smiles.
“Maybe at the beginning, but not at the end.”
Malarkey doesn’t believe that nonsense, of course, since beautiful women in their mid-thirties would never be attracted to someone who needs a handicapped parking placard because of osteoarthritis, suffers from spinal stenosis, is losing his hair, needs home care to clip his toenails, has high blood pressure and higher cholesterol, and is on the cusp of full-blown cancer. And other assorted ailments.
“So, Ms …”
“Liliano.”
“Right. Li-li-ano. What can I do for you? As you can see, I still have papers to grade dating back to …” He looks through a stack of papers on his desk and picks one out “… nineteen eighty-eight.”
“I’m a little late registering and wanted your advice about courses.”
“Of course, then I advise you to take any course, but mine.”
“And why is that?”
“I’m an asshole,” he smiles. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a lit theory course or a creative writing course or maybe a course on Nabokov or that Burgess fellow. You know who he is?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“My dear, it’s twenty-twenty-two and literary history begins and ends with yesterday’s Yahoo! headlines, Facebook pages, Twitter feeds, Instagrams, TikToks, YouTubes, ad nauseum. Even Google’s useless in the face of systemic stupidity.”
“I’ll consider that.”
“Excellent idea.”
Malarkey looks at his watch.
“Yes, do consider that. I’d love to chat some more, but it’s almost four-thirty.”
“What happens at four-thirty?”
Malarkey raises his eyebrows as he looks at the Reader.
“Black Nails.”
CHAPTER SIX
FLANN O’BRIEN’s PUB WITHOUT FLANN O’BRIEN WHERE AN UNPREDICTABLE THING HAPPENS
As routine would have it, Malarkey walks into Flann O’Brien’s. Although this time, quite curious to Malarkey, Liliana wishes to accompany him as they make the short jaunt from Phigmente Hall. What’s different about this particular visit is that Liliana walks in before Malarkey, rushes behind the bar, embraces Paolo and kisses him on the cheek. Malarkey stops abruptly at the bar and looks at the Reader.
“I guess that’s one way to get free drinks. Seems a bit pushy to me. Must have something to do with the storyline.”
Liliana turns to Malarkey.
“He’s my cousin. He owns the bar.”
Malarkey looks at the Reader once again.
“What a twist. What is this, a second-rate M. Night Shyamalan movie?”
Malarkey turns back to them.
“This is Professor Malarkey,” Liliana says to Paolo.
“Yes, we’ve met. A Black Nail at four-thirty, right?”
“Boy’s a genius.”
“We had a very engaging conversation last night.”
“Really? About what?”
“Did you know he’s an avid Formula One enthusiast and a cyclist?”
“Who would have thought?” She turns to Malarkey. “Would that be with clothes or without?”
Malarkey smirks.
“It’s on my bucket list.”
“What is? Driving without clothes?”
“No, driving an F1 car.”
“Best to be clothed then, I imagine,” she states unequivocally.
Malarkey sheepishly smiles. It’s clear he’s met his match.
There would be little need to go into a long and lengthy narrative about how the three of them sat down in a booth, chatted from 4:30 to 7:30, and talked about sundry topics that would, no doubt, bore the Reader if not Malarkey. So, Malarkey will avoid going into those pedestrian issues until the next chapter titled: The Obligatory Backstory.1
1 At this point, Malarkey would like to apologize for the way the novel has been written so far since some might think it’s merely a “mind game” or as one numbskull editor called it, a “campus novel” which, in itself, is patently specious and not in keeping with the strict codes of fictional narrative. To those Readers who think that way, Malarkey deeply apologizes and in the immortal words of Rimbaud says, “Va te faire foutre!” Please read on. Or not.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE OBLIGATORY BACKSTORY
Malarkey could have written the obligatory backstory in the previous chapter, but it’s necessary for him to be alone with Liliana and not have Paolo there since that would (a) decrease the sexual tension between them, as well as (b) decrease the dramatic potential. Hence, the obligatory backstory needs its own chapter. One doesn’t need to be prescient to realize Malarkey and Liliana are beginning to become inclined to continue their relationship in some fashion other than that of teacher and student. It’s also clear to Malarkey that Liliana isn’t like any of his “normal”2 graduate students and that makes her genuinely approachable. More important, since Liliana is well over 21, Malarkey doesn’t have to ask the legal department first if it’s acceptable to ask her out on a date and second, if he can see what she looks like in the nude, both of which heretofore were a mandatory part of his contract and subsequent promotion to tenure.
After leaving the pub, they stop at a local liquor store and pick up a six-pack of Guinness Bitters before they head toward her home, which, coincidentally, is not far from either Flann O’Brien’s or Malarkey’s bungalow. One might ask the question: Why is it they’ve never “bumped” into each other given the fact they only live a block apart with her bungalow on Shaffer Street and his on Center? The answer is simple: That would undermine the entire chapter devoted to the obligatory backstory. Having said that, the obligatory backstory continues as they walk in the Citrus City twilight.
“Is there a Misses Malarkey?” she asks.
“Not unless she changed her name,” he answers.
“And that wouldn’t be likely?” she asks.
“Very unlikely, but there is a Ms. Malarkey,” he answers.
“And whom might that be?” she asks.
Malarkey takes out his wallet and shows her a photo.
“My daughter. She’s at Vassar. Studying economics,” he answers in a proud father way.
“Impressive. Why economics?” she asks.
“Trying to avoid hand-to-mouth disease,” Malarkey answers raising his eyebrows.
“She’s beautiful,” she says.
“Obviously takes after me,” he answers.
“Obviously. So, what happened?” she asks.
(At this point, the Reader should realize the manner in which the backstory dialogue is being written includes dialogue tags as a way of writing something fictionally traditional and, more important, marketable. Malarkey thanks the Reader for understanding that).
“Sexual intercourse happened. Usual missionary position. I presume you’re familiar with it,” Malarkey says, raising his eyebrows. “Man on top, woman on bottom.”
“Yes, I am and no, between you and your ex,” she replies.
“The usual marital cliché. People going in different directions,” he answers.
“Which direction did you go?” she asks.
“Maybe too much arguing or too many Bushmills,” he answers.
“Maybe?” she asks.
Malarkey shrugs.
“And she?” she asks.
“She travelled to Germany and found a young Argentine academic. But don’t cry for me,” he replies.
“Do you always make puns?” she asks.
“Only when I can’t think of anything original,” he answers.
“Then that must happen often, but no divorce is ever that simple,” she says.
“Meaning?” he asks.
“Meaning, women generally don’t cheat without a cause for cheating,” she replies rather unequivocally.
Malarkey says nothing as if pondering the statement. In fact, Malarkey is pondering since there is a lot to ponder and he has pondered the things that are meant to be pondered on many ponderous occasions before so this was just one in a series of ponderable moments. As they continue to walk, Malarkey continues to ponder the imponderable, much of which, because it’s ponderable, would not necessitate dialogue.
As they continue walking, Malarkey could describe how Citrus City is a very charming little town, but since Malarkey has already described Citrus City there’s no need to describe it again. That would be redundant and Malarkey leaves redundant writing to Balzac who set a very high bar for redundant writing. Having said that, many of the houses in Citrus City are quaint bungalows, which goes along with everything else that’s quaint about Citrus City, twee, and Liliana’s bungalow is no exception with its artfully designed and meticulously landscaped front lawn, white picket fence, and palm trees—all of which are the absolute antithesis of Malarkey’s front lawn. If the Reader is struggling with the word, “antithesis” Malarkey will wait until you look it up before he continues.
“Here’s my home. Care for a nightcap?” she asks.
“Would that be appropriate for an asshole to do?” he asks.
“Only if we don’t stand on ceremony,” she answers.
“Then by all means, after you,” he replies in a very un-Malarkian way since he knows chivalry has been dead for generations.
As the Reader will soon discover, Liliana comes from a quasi-Italian family (Italian father, American mother) and her home is not only very tastefully decorated, but is very Italian. For example, there’s an original De Chirico on one wall, a Boccioni on another, one more by Severini, another by Marino, and another by Sironi: Futurists all. There are paintings of Venice (after Turner), leather-bound books alphabetically arranged in built-in mahogany bookshelves and lastly, painted on one entire wall, a masterful reproduction of Botticelli’s, Birth of Venus that is so well-painted it could have been ripped off the wall of the Uffizi. Since she has a nude on her wall and he has nudes on his walls, Malarkey takes that to be a good omen if not a harbinger of naked things to come.
Malarkey sits across from her in an oversized, overstuffed Nella Vetrina chair with ottoman as Liliana fetchingly lies down on a Roche Bobois couch.3 Malarkey assumes she’s fetchingly lying down on the Roche Bobois couch, but fetchingly is in the eyes of the fetcher. Perhaps, for Liliana it just means she’s lying on the couch. Period. But Malarkey does see something he didn’t see before: a tattoo on her ankle. Unable to constrain himself, Malarkey asks:
