him myself this morning .
No matter. I t was still open season on Walter Scovill.
C.J. st rode purposefully to the front of the lecture hall with her pink cowboy boots clicking loudly and hair flying wildly behind her.
“I am Professor Whitmore. As I am sure you all know, Professor DeBeyer is not teaching the rest of the semester for the obvious reason that he is dead. I encourage each and every one of you, as you process your grief, to see the head of the econ department, Professor Walter Scovill. He has assured me he would love to talk with every one of you, individually , about this at length . His room number, phone number, website and email are on the syllabus I am passing out to you.”
C.J. paused and scanned the room. One face looked vaguely familiar, but C.J. couldn’t place where she had seen the girl. Probably in Wallaby’s. More notable was that despite the fact their professor had just been murdered, no one appeared upset or grieving, unless the youth of today grieved by flirting with their neighbors. C.J. hoped this small detail wouldn’t keep down the number of students stopping by Walter’s office. Her revenge enacted, C.J. started the lecture for the day.
Less than a minute later, she stopped and stared stone-faced at the class. The whole time she had been enlightening them on the delights of the demand curve, C.J. was aware she had not had their full attention. Single girls in low cut tank tops batted their eyelash extensions at the tattooed biceps sitting next to them. Other students clustered like mushrooms around small screens indiscreetly hidden under desks, exchanging morning gossip.
“Did she really?”
“I heard he wanted it.”
“But what about Aimee??”
The classroom valentines were connected by common ear buds and, disconcertingly, hands and tongues. For most, the learning of economics seemed to be of secondary or, in some cases, tertiary, importance.
C.J. waited the class out for their attention. She waited until the whispering and giggling and fondling died down. She waited until all the ear buds were removed. She waited until the last students looked up from their iPhones. Then, she waited some more. She had not had their attention before, but she sure did now. They shifted uncomfortably in their seats. This strange lady in her pink cowboy boots looked pissed.
“You know,” C.J. drawled benignly in her full Texas twang, eventual ly breaking the painful silence, “I get a pretty good view of y’all from here at the podium. Not great. But pretty good. For instance, I can see when your hands are in your lap and you get that happy, little smile on your face.”
C.J. paused and looked around from student to student. Most students were looking puzzled, not sure where she was going with this speech. Some were clearly annoyed. C.J. was wasting their valuable, trust-fund time.
“But the view isn’t that great,” C.J. continued, in the tone of one telling a quaint Texa s folktale. “For example, I can’t tell what your sweet little hands are doing. When someone’s hands are in their lap and they’re smiling all happy like, I got two guesses. They’re textin’ or they’re masturbatin’.”
Students gasped. Had the professor really just said the m-word? OMG! Who was this woman?
“Now, I got to say, it don’t really matter which one you’re doing, because neither are okay in an Eaton University lecture hall. So, let’s be real clear. If your hands are below the desk, you will be asked to leave. And if I have to discuss why you were asked to leave class with your fine parents who are paying cold, hard cash for you to sit here and learn, I will tell them it looked like you were pleasuring yourself in my classroom. Now, I am sure I have been clear.”
Students nodded dumbly, placing their cell phones and iPads in their backpacks and their hands on their notebooks. Their faces showed their shock at having their technology removed from them and in such a dramatic
No matter. I t was still open season on Walter Scovill.
C.J. st rode purposefully to the front of the lecture hall with her pink cowboy boots clicking loudly and hair flying wildly behind her.
“I am Professor Whitmore. As I am sure you all know, Professor DeBeyer is not teaching the rest of the semester for the obvious reason that he is dead. I encourage each and every one of you, as you process your grief, to see the head of the econ department, Professor Walter Scovill. He has assured me he would love to talk with every one of you, individually , about this at length . His room number, phone number, website and email are on the syllabus I am passing out to you.”
C.J. paused and scanned the room. One face looked vaguely familiar, but C.J. couldn’t place where she had seen the girl. Probably in Wallaby’s. More notable was that despite the fact their professor had just been murdered, no one appeared upset or grieving, unless the youth of today grieved by flirting with their neighbors. C.J. hoped this small detail wouldn’t keep down the number of students stopping by Walter’s office. Her revenge enacted, C.J. started the lecture for the day.
Less than a minute later, she stopped and stared stone-faced at the class. The whole time she had been enlightening them on the delights of the demand curve, C.J. was aware she had not had their full attention. Single girls in low cut tank tops batted their eyelash extensions at the tattooed biceps sitting next to them. Other students clustered like mushrooms around small screens indiscreetly hidden under desks, exchanging morning gossip.
“Did she really?”
“I heard he wanted it.”
“But what about Aimee??”
The classroom valentines were connected by common ear buds and, disconcertingly, hands and tongues. For most, the learning of economics seemed to be of secondary or, in some cases, tertiary, importance.
C.J. waited the class out for their attention. She waited until the whispering and giggling and fondling died down. She waited until all the ear buds were removed. She waited until the last students looked up from their iPhones. Then, she waited some more. She had not had their attention before, but she sure did now. They shifted uncomfortably in their seats. This strange lady in her pink cowboy boots looked pissed.
“You know,” C.J. drawled benignly in her full Texas twang, eventual ly breaking the painful silence, “I get a pretty good view of y’all from here at the podium. Not great. But pretty good. For instance, I can see when your hands are in your lap and you get that happy, little smile on your face.”
C.J. paused and looked around from student to student. Most students were looking puzzled, not sure where she was going with this speech. Some were clearly annoyed. C.J. was wasting their valuable, trust-fund time.
“But the view isn’t that great,” C.J. continued, in the tone of one telling a quaint Texa s folktale. “For example, I can’t tell what your sweet little hands are doing. When someone’s hands are in their lap and they’re smiling all happy like, I got two guesses. They’re textin’ or they’re masturbatin’.”
Students gasped. Had the professor really just said the m-word? OMG! Who was this woman?
“Now, I got to say, it don’t really matter which one you’re doing, because neither are okay in an Eaton University lecture hall. So, let’s be real clear. If your hands are below the desk, you will be asked to leave. And if I have to discuss why you were asked to leave class with your fine parents who are paying cold, hard cash for you to sit here and learn, I will tell them it looked like you were pleasuring yourself in my classroom. Now, I am sure I have been clear.”
Students nodded dumbly, placing their cell phones and iPads in their backpacks and their hands on their notebooks. Their faces showed their shock at having their technology removed from them and in such a dramatic
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