Definitely Against Policy, page 4
Eli’s impatient footsteps echoed on the linoleum in the over-lit room. The first turn of a long rusty screw of a migraine pierced his right temple. If only he could swallow a handful of Advil and lie down on a couch—his fucking kingdom for a fucking couch—and read his email with a bag of frozen peas over his forehead. Whether rudely or kindly, he had to end the call.
“Actually, Jonquil, I could use your help with setup,” he said through gritted teeth. “You know what these portables are like.”
“Quite unsuitable,” she concurred. “Harsh lighting, ugly flooring, ghastly office furniture.”
“You guessed it.”
“I’ll call Siobhan. We’ll have a coat of paint on the walls and furniture and appliances in there within twenty-four hours. Mind you, not much we can do about the floor besides an area rug.”
“Great! That’s fine. Uh…the computer…” He was going down fast.
“Wi-Fi and phone?”
“Yes, please. If you have time.” He flicked the light switch off. In cloud-shadowed, late February daylight, the room was marginally more tolerable, though still noisy with construction, still nowhere to sit.
Jonquil prattled, “I’m all about mentorship, Eli. Nurturing the next generation. For you, I’ll make time.”
Back against the wall, he slid to the floor in a heap of long limbs.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m fine. That all sounds great. Thank you.”
“I should be able to organize something for around two o’clock.”
“Great. That’s great.” Before she could ask after his health again, he blurted, “There’s nothing here to steal, so I’ll leave the office open, and I’ll come back later when you and Siobhan get here. Just text me.”
Eli ended the call in fetal position, his head cradled in his hands. Five minutes. He’d lie still for five minutes and then he’d rise like Lazarus, buy some painkillers and sunglasses, and carry on. He wouldn’t call Mary, though. Not till he was strong again. She mustn’t see him like this.
****
With Dominic teaching social dance lessons at his studio and Gabriel at yet another conference, Mary had the apartment and the responsibility for Philosophy 307 to herself. She’d begin the Thursday evening Zoom class with a recap of last week’s survey of Marxist theories of economic justice and then she’d introduce Rawls. Two minutes to seven, fifty-six hours since she’d left the sales office, and still no call or text from Eli. She wasn’t concerned. She definitely wasn’t hurt. He was busy; she was busy, and their relationship was purely professional, so big hairy deal if he hadn’t communicated.
Mary put her phone on vibrate and turned it over to avoid any distractions, then removed the post-it notes from her screen. Camera on, her own face frowned back at her with the glow of streetlights reflected in her glasses. At this angle, she resembled a disapproving insect. She shifted the screen for a more flattering light and the background of Dominic’s air-cleaning spider plants, and it was showtime.
“Good evening, everybody,” she enthused. “Dr. Silverstein is away, so I’ll be delivering tonight’s lecture and facilitating the discussion. If everyone could wave a quick hello, cameras on for the first five minutes while we get started.”
Zoom was an online Romper Room for undergrads, and she was Miss Betty, holding up the psychedelic magic mirror, like in the clip of the 80s children’s show she’d seen on YouTube. “I see Skylar, and Finn, and Megan—like the princess—and Jaeden…and umm…you are? Oh. Brianna’s mom…Kathy? I suppose you can take notes for her, but Brianna has the PowerPoints and the reading list already…well, okay…and Eve and Samantha…you’re Samuel now?…That’s fine, Samuel it is…and Joshua and Molly…”
And you may all kill me now. Go on. Send me a stick of dynamite in a bouquet of carnations. The address is 613 St. Dunstan Avenue, Apartment 210. Only spare me the slow death of the next two and a half hours of Zoom.
“Right. Any questions about last week’s lecture? No?..Yes! Megan… Anti-American? Let’s explore that briefly, shall we? I don’t think Marx was attacking the former US President or the Republican Party, at least not directly… Yes, Joshua makes a sound point…Except insofar as our political class tends to buttress capitalist systems… However, if you’ll recall, Marx was focused on Europe and the plight of workers in Britain and on the continent in the mid-nineteenth century. Jaeden? Ha, ha! No, I don’t suppose any of us actually recall the 1850s. We weren’t there. That’s true. I meant ‘recall from last week’s lecture.’”
Or a pizza topped with poisonous sliced toadstools.
“Right, then. John Rawls, fairness versus equality, his critique of utilitarianism, and the mysterious ‘veil of ignorance’…I agree, Jaeden. It isn’t a mysterious facial garment at all. I was attempting to generate interest in his theory with some intrigue, but as you point out, his ideas need no embellishment. Okay—”
Or a deadly hot, polonium curry. Anything.
As Mary peered at the vacuous Megan, the literal-minded Jaeden, the eager Joshua, Brianna’s mother clutching her pen, and the little squares of names standing in for the students who’d shut off their cameras, she realized she hated teaching on Zoom. She adored the world of ideas, the theories and tangents, and the labyrinthine debates. From the ancient Greek stoa to the post-modern, remotely attended seminar, teaching was the philosopher’s bread and butter. It was what one did, and she couldn’t do it. Not by Zoom. Not without contemplating the relief of seppuku executed with the sharpest pencil in her desk drawer. She was being histrionic, she knew that, but when she was honest with herself, when she had nowhere to hide, whenever she had to regurgitate the unpalatable contents of a dry lecture into a camera, she was forced to admit the truth to herself: she loathed teaching Gabriel’s Zoom classes.
Mary split her screen, pulled up the notes, and with all the emotion of a lobotomized automaton, delivered the lesson. As nine p.m. approached, her phone rattled. The class was supposed to go for another half hour, but damn it, that could be Eli. She could peek. She sat on her hands.
“Umm…yes, Megan? Absolutely. Rawls’ framework demands that we employ our imagination, that we strive to understand other people’s hardships. Joshua? ‘The poor will always be among us,’ you say? Ha, ha! That’s a depressing thought, though likely true. Let’s discuss that for the remainder of the class. Is some level of poverty inevitable, and as a follow-up, must we sacrifice other expressions of justice if we prioritize the alleviation of poverty in the pursuit of a just society? Jaeden is asking, ‘What do we mean by poverty? Relative or absolute?’ Why don’t you define it for our discussion, Jaeden?”
One by one, most of the class logged off as Megan, Jaeden, and Joshua held forth. Mary flipped her phone over. It was Eli!
—Roasters. At 8. What are you wearing?—
—That’s a personal question. A blouse and pajama pants.—
—Weird.—
—I’m dressed for Zoom.—
—I meant tomorrow. What are you wearing tomorrow?—
—Why do you ask?—
—So I can match my outfit with yours. Team colors.—
—Good night, Eli.—
Mary turned her phone over, erased the smile that had infected her face, and looked at the screen. Brianna’s mother was still scribbling notes while Joshua asked Megan if she’d like to continue their discussion offline and Jaeden grasped for re-entry to the conversation.
Perhaps she could end the class early without ruffling Jaeden’s feathers too much. “Right, any final points?” Mary asked. “Nine-twenty is a round number. That leaves precisely ten minutes for individual preparation on our next topic, which is neo-utilitarianism.” She watched Jaeden’s grainy face for signs of discomfort, but he merely nodded his agreement. “I expect the ideas of Peter Singer will produce some lively debate. Good night and see you in a week, everyone!”
And cut.
And wine.
Mary stretched, padded to the kitchen, and filled a wineglass from the spigot of a gallon-size box. She swallowed a finger-width draft of heavily tannic, tooth-staining liquid and, thus fortified, took the glass to her bedroom to consider her outfit for Friday.
Chapter Four
“Don’t say anything,” Mary warned as she sat down at the table.
“What do you mean?” Eli consulted his watch with a dramatic flourish. “You’re on time today.”
“You know what I mean.”
He did. Mary’s effort at fashion had paid off. Though unconventional, her outfit was highly successful. She’d swept her hair back in a loose knot, ditched her glasses, and applied eye makeup and pink lipstick. She wore a crisp, pale blue man’s shirt cinched at the waist, a thick metallic watch on her wrist, and tight, black jeans. Audible only to her in the clatter of the café, he whistled appreciatively.
“I told you not to say anything.”
“I didn’t,” he protested.
“If you must know, my roommate helped me. If they ever need a fashion guy for Queer Eye, Dominic should audition.”
Eli leaned back in his chair and smiled to inform Mary that he understood her roommate was gay and, what’s more, he understood that she hoped he, Eli Klassen, would understand she was imparting this information intentionally though not, perish the thought, aggressively. She blushed and hid behind her teacup.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner,” he said casually. “To give you an update.”
“You’re busy and I’m busy. Thanks for the tea.”
He wished she wouldn’t thank him for an inconsequential cup of tea. He shrugged away her cool gratitude and asked, “How are your studies going?”
“Well, I think.” She brightened. “I’ve learned a lot of interesting jargon—building envelope, certificate of possession, delineated space—”
“I meant your dissertation proposal, Mary.”
“Oh, that. I didn’t make much progress, unfortunately.”
As he tried to think of something reassuring to say, she released her anxieties in a torrent of words. “Gabriel is an uncompromising taskmaster. He’s left me to teach all his Zoom classes and do all his marking while he hobnobs at various symposia. And every time I float an idea for my dissertation, he either doesn’t answer my email or he shoots it down.” She mimicked her advisor, “The ancients are stale, the existentialists overdone, the utilitarians too pat, the post-modernists too trendy.”
Amused, Eli doubted the man sounded anything like Mary’s rendition. “What are you interested in?” he asked, ignoring the ping of his phone in his pocket.
“Everything.”
“A grand meta-theory? A philosophy of philosophies?”
“Funny, Eli.” She smiled. “Grand theories are the territory of religion, and Gabriel would think I was off my rocker if I went in that direction. I’m interested in everything, but I have to whittle that huge, shapeless mass of theory, that ‘everything’, into a singular idea that is unique and more or less defined. Something that I can polish.”
“Transform a hunk of marble into the statue of David.”
“Pretty much.”
Forehead knit in thought, Eli drank his coffee. He hadn’t studied philosophy, but he also loved ideas, from the strange Biblical teachings of his boyhood to systems theory in the economics books he’d borrowed from the library. Although he didn’t believe in “things happening for a reason” or a “master plan,” he believed that making connections was a powerful way to find insight.
He set down his cup. “Are you interested in money? I mean, in a philosophical way?”
“Money? As in, ‘filthy lucre?’ Because that’s how Gabriel sees it.”
“Never mind Gabriel. How do you see it?”
“Well, not like that. I admit, I haven’t really thought of it as a subject worthy of scrutiny.”
“And here you are. Immersing yourself in the world of real estate and money. You’re a fish who doesn’t see water.”
“That’s not true. I think about money a lot,” she countered defensively.
“When your Visa bill is due. Then money, or its lack, transforms into an existential crisis. While you struggle through a nonsensical Judith Butler essay, you ignore the very thing that motivates so many people.”
Mary stiffened and crossed her arms.
“Forget what I said about Judith Butler,” he said apologetically. “I shouldn’t criticize what I’m not smart enough to understand.”
“No, no.” Mary shook her head. “You’re not wrong about her. She buries her ideas in a quagmire of mumbo-jumbo. It’s just, well, your accusation that I’m ignorant about money cuts to the quick because it’s true.”
“It doesn’t have to be true. You’re a fast learner. The things you’re picking up in real estate—there are philosophical assumptions underlying it all. If you could combine the two worlds, work and school—”
“I could save myself a ton of time and effort. Maybe even think an original thought.”
“Exactly.”
She took another sip of tea, gazed pensively at her saucer, then raised her eyes to him. “What do you think of money?”
“Well, since you’re asking, I’ve thought about it a lot. I don’t believe that money’s the root of all evil. Avarice, the love of money, is a root of evil among others. Money is a resource. I think the parable of the talents is a wise lesson. Money is actually a proxy for things like energy or the skillful application of ingenuity, and it should be put to use, to benefit others and yourself. It shouldn’t be squandered or left to stagnate. That’s wasteful. Also, financial wealth is better than poverty because it gives you the freedom to live your life on your own terms and contribute to the greater good.”
“Aren’t you the Biblical scholar,” she remarked archly.
“Not really.”
“Avarice? Evil?” she said with a smirk. “The parable of the talents?”
He’d taken a stupid risk and revealed too much of himself to this beautiful, intelligent woman whom he’d hoped to impress. Eli’s face burned and he looked away. He should have realized that Mary Rose, PhD student at one of the world’s top universities, would think his ideas were hokey and simple.
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand lightly. “You misunderstand me, Eli. I’m complimenting you. You’re onto something.”
He longed for the return of her hand, but she only smiled. “Maybe I could gain some traction in a conceptual exploration of real estate.”
“A conceptual exploration?” he echoed.
“Do I sound insufferable?”
“No, you sound smart. I think you are smart. Smarter than me.” Than I. Would she correct him? “I confess—you fascinate me,” he added.
“I’m no smarter than you.” She waved away his compliment.
For a moment, he regarded her in silence. She was perceptive enough to detect a single molecule of bullshit. Deciding he must always be truthful to her, even if she rejected him, even if he had to fight through self-doubt, he said, “I’m a humble real estate agent. In a couple of years, you’ll be Dr. Rose, floating high in the rarefied air of the intelligentsia. I’m intimidated by that fact, but I’ll teach you whatever I can about the world of money—if you want that from me.”
To his chagrin, she laughed. “An open secret, Eli? The academy? The humanities? They run on hot gases. Fumes. Not air. Especially these days when even tenured professors appease their undergrads as if it’s Mao’s China and steer their grad students away from heterodox notions. In some ways, your mind is freer to run with ideas than mine is. You answer only to yourself, and you’ve let your natural curiosity be your guide. You have absolutely no reason to feel intimidated by me, okay?” Her gray eyes widened. “And yes, I want to learn from you.”
Eli swallowed his bracingly bitter coffee and considered what she was saying. “Are you unhappy in grad school?”
“No, not exactly unhappy. Maybe disillusioned,” she admitted. “I’ll think hard on your suggestion of hammering what I learn from you into ideas for a proposal and dissertation.”
“Cool. Then it’s a deal. I’ll help you in any way I can.” He extended his hand over the table, and she placed her soft hand in his to shake on their pact.
“By the way, how do you know about Judith Butler?” she asked. “Have you read her work?”
If Mary imagined him wading through esoteric journals on gender theory, she was about to be disappointed. “Uh, I snooped,” he confessed. “Last week you were reading something and scratching your head and frowning. When you left your desk to refill your mug, I was curious about what was upsetting you and I peeked at the journal on your desk.”
“That’s unconscionable,” Mary said with a theatrical scowl.
“Hey—you said yourself that I’m curious.”
“And you were appropriately punished for it with a dose of Butler-write.”
His phone pinged again.
“Hadn’t you better check that?” she asked.
“Yeah. Class is over. Back to the real world.” Eli pulled his phone from his pocket and found twelve messages begging for his urgent attention.
****
They walked up Lakeshore Boulevard in weak sunshine, Eli acting as tour guide, pointing out properties of note, and Mary asking what she hoped weren’t stupid questions. As they neared Navy Street, they spotted a structure looming over the sidewalk beside the sales office.
“A new billboard?” she asked as the structure’s street-facing surface came into view.
“I believe so,” said Eli. “They must have installed that yesterday when I was—Jesus. It’s all wrong.”
“When you were what?”
“When I was…uh…nothing…just taking care of something,” he said vaguely, eyes fixed upward.
Obviously the billboard concerned him, but his evasiveness was odd. Whatever the “something” was, he preferred not to share it with her.
