Chapter 8

I didn’t have a choice – I had to meet Mr. Becker. Considering his email, and the events at the grille, I had to work fast and recover some semblance of respectability. I would have to sit down in person and talk to Mr. Becker. Manners dictated it. Professional courtesy dictated it. I was dreading it.

I continually tell myself that, if I write intelligently, I should be able to speak intelligently. After all, in either form of communication, the same language composes my thoughts, the same vocabulary formulates my ideas. That wasn’t the case. When writing either in my diary or at a computer, the link between my brain and the words on the page were direct and complementary. When I wrote, the words flowed, coming out in a rush. When I spoke, a barrier rose between my brain and my mouth. The flow of words blocked up, crushing against the barrier, a wave of letters scattering in all directions. Instead of streaming coherent and well considered thoughts, I verbalized jumbled, stuttered fragments.

Facing a one-on-one meeting with Mr. Becker, I could envision my upcoming embarrassment, what with my stuttering, my flustered commentary, my insipid conversation skills. So I countered my growing trepidation with excessive amounts of preparation time. I read and re-read Mr. Becker’s paper, reviewed my note cards concerning any of his references. I treated the meeting like a final exam. I wasn’t going to look stupid, no matter how much extra work it took.

A week later, I found myself nearing the English Faculty offices. Anxious by the whole prospect of discussing my work with Mr. Becker, I was about fifteen minutes early. The doors along the corridor were all closed. I wandered the halls and waited, reading the random messages posted on the various pinup boards; dotting each were the clichés of academia, transmitted through the various modes of comedy, satire and other printed scribbles. Apparently, there were three requirements for becoming a serious academic: 1) accept that you are overworked and underpaid, 2) have socialist tendencies and will, at various points in life, refer to Marx as your best friend, and 3) read and write followed by more reading and writing. I was second-guessing my attraction.

Completely absorbed in a quiz titled “How to tell if she is smart enough for you…”, I didn’t notice Mr. Becker come up behind me. He startled me when he placed his hand on my shoulder, and I jumped instinctively.

“Easy there…just needed to get your attention.”

I worked to calm down my beating heart while simultaneously formulate something witty to say. As a result, I just stared in his general direction. After a moment of silence, he motioned towards his office door. I followed him, waited till he sat down, then took a seat opposite him and pulled out my notes. I tried to be as professional as possible, keeping it focused on the purpose of the meeting. I was hoping that, if I didn’t bring up the events at the grille, they wouldn’t be discussed.

The formality I hoped for was breached almost immediately.

“So, you didn’t burn your paper. Does that mean you’re less frustrated, or just haven’t found time to buy matches?”

I had planned for this scenario. In fact I had planned for several scenarios; some included reference to my behavior at the grille, some where the whole matter remained absent from the conversation. I had created responses for situations in which Mr. Becker might be angry, might be offended, or, as in this case, might make a joke.

“Umm…uh…somewhere in between. I…I bought matches, then found some new material…I…uh…well…the desire for fire has been…umm…mitigated for now.”

He smiled at me. He seemed genuinely entertained, both by my obvious discomfort to his question as well as my attempt at a witty response. He laughed and moved slightly closer, looking at some of the marks I had made to my copy of his paper. The position I had chosen to sit at made reading anything simultaneously difficult, since if I was reading something, it would be upside-down to Mr. Becker and vise versa. After a few minutes, Mr. Becker got up and moved to the seat next to me. His eyes never left the paper itself. I could feel him skimming each of the various notes I had made, the passages I had underlined. We sat in silence for several minutes while he flipped through the entire paper. While he read, I observed, watching him, his movements, his fingers skimming over certain notes that seemed to interest him, the slight grin that would emerge at the corner of his lips at certain questions and comments I had written in the margins. His eyes darted back and forth with stark intensity, and I watched them seemingly absorb everything in front of him; hazel with a thin gold halo, they communicated intelligence, kindness, and humor. I couldn’t help thinking that, if Emily or Julie were here right now, they would be very appreciative of the package.

I was startled again when he spoke. As he looked up I quickly looked back at the paper. It was easier to speak to him if I kept my eyes on the purpose of the meeting. He asked me several questions about my notes. Apparently I had understood most of what his argument. He referred back to the material he had originally suggested and, with my other notes in hand, we conferred back and forth. The conversation was ten times easier when it involved me questioning him or requesting clarification. Before I knew it, an hour and a half had passed, and I was assured that the hours of research I had performed were not fruitless.

It was late, darkness settling outside. Mr. Becker seemed oblivious to it all, which struck me most. He was genuinely enjoying the discussion. I couldn’t help but be impressed by his patience. He was a walking reference source himself, throwing out several more authors for me to find and read. He referred to passages verbatim and even provided page numbers for several specific examples. While I was having a hard time keeping up with the amount of information being tossed my way, he seemed unfazed. I had tapped a reservoir of television knowledge.

Though I was enjoying the conversation, I had other work waiting for me. I looked at my watch and remarked at the time. He looked up, surprised.

“Wow, I didn’t notice. You have plenty here, and you have a very good sense of where to go. I’d be happy to help you out again if you have any more questions”

“No…no I think I am set for now. I…uh…I’m so sorry I took up so…so much of you time. I hope…well…I hope I didn’t keep you from something important.”

“No. You’re fine. If I wasn’t here right now, I’d probably be at home, catching up on some reading.”

An image popped into my head right then. I saw him in an arm chair, a reading light on directly behind him, a book in hand. He was wearing some square-rimmed reading glasses and sipping coffee from a cobalt blue ceramic mug. The image made me smile unconsciously. Mr. Becker noticed.

“Yeah, I know. Smile all you want. It is rather cliché, isn’t it?”

“Ohh…oh, no. It was…I was…well…I wasn’t smiling at that. Really….”

“Uh-huh. Sure. It’s no problem. I am, after all, an English teacher.”

I smiled consciously this time, looked directly at him, again thanking him for his time. He shook my hand. It was a firm grip which seemed to last a moment too long. He smiled back at me – a smile that was almost overpowering. I felt self-conscious again. It was definitely time to go. I hastily retreated through the door, thanking him again, and tripping over a chair on the way out.