Fail by Rick Skwiot

Author:Rick Skwiot
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blank Slate Press
Published: 2014-07-27T16:00:00+00:00

- 16 -

Another evening home alone for Gabriel. Trying to stick to his low-carb diet, he poured himself some bourbon, made a salad, and fried a steak. As he ate he read about “tone” in his grammar book, about how the writer’s attitude and vocabulary must suit the topic and the audience. After dinner he sat on the couch with his laptop and dove further into “The Eddy.” It was like he was back in school, doing his homework.

By midnight he came to the last entry, dated nine a.m., Saturday, December 21, the morning Stone disappeared.

I say I distinguished myself at the faculty Christmas party yesterday—my last day at the university and perhaps my last as a teacher, given my behavior. I don’t know what got into me. Well, yes I do: in vino veritas (via the two beers and shot of Jameson I had at lunch with Dadisi) and a crystalline sense of liberation—I’ve lost my job, my wife, my raison d’etre.

I had planned on skipping the event to avoid chitchat about my leaving. But the party was already going on when Dadisi and I returned, and he pulled me into the conference room.

I was sipping coffee and munching Christmas cookies when I heard the dinging of a spoon on glass. Everyone quieted and turned toward the punch bowl, where stood our fearless leader, Armand Betancourt.

He welcomed everyone, apologized for the lack of alcohol in the punch—ha ha—and announced: “This is my fifth Christmas party as department chairman and, I have learned, my last…”

Gasps. Mumbled condolences. Betancourt raised a hand to quiet the crowd.

“I’ve just learned that come July I will assume new duties as the Dean of the School of Arts and Sciences.”

Cheers, a smattering of applause.

I muttered, “To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence,” just as the room quieted. Heads turned to me. I raised a hand as if in apology. “I didn’t say that; Mark Twain did.”

From across the room Betancourt glared at me. I waved at him.

“Don’t worry, Armand. I’ll keep your academic dishonesty secret—for the time being.”

Stunned silence in the room.

“Enough, Stone. Let’s keep this friendly.”

“That’s good coming from you, who a few hours ago threatened to sic campus police on me. Once again your totalitarian impulses kicking in.”

“Is that all?”

“Just one other thing: Kiss my ass, you corrupt son of a bitch.”

Another round of gasps.

“Not wise to slander with witnesses present, Stone.”

“Not slander if I have proof, which I do—at least for the ‘corrupt’ part.”

I saw Dadisi giving me a pleading look. He was right: guilt by association. Just because he was my office mate and we’d had lunch together, it could cost him with the vindictive Betancourt.

But Betancourt was right too: My exit speech was over-dramatic and uncivil. But how else to get people’s attention these days?

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,…

I had already played three of Shakespeare’s seven ages of man—the infant, the child, and the lover—all to no avail.

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