I managed to get the books I needed. I'm ashamed to say that I got my Elemental English text by tripping another freshman before he could get to it. But all's fair in love, war, and academics. The Help a Gimp program got me a part time job in the library, which I adored. I've always loved books, and to actually be paid to handle them was a dream come true.
I'd managed to put together an easily managed schedule. English and Literature were Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, Number Theory and Poetry Workshop were Tuesday and Thursday evenings, four to ten. I worked eight hours Saturday and Sunday each. With my small income and what was left of my assistance allotment, I managed without too much strain, though there wasn't a lot of cash for extras.
I've never been much of a morning person. At seven o' clock that first Monday, I was huddled in my seat halfway down the aisle in Elemental English, reflecting that perhaps I hadn't learned as much as I'd thought my first go round in college if I was dumb enough to take a crack of dawn class. Langely strode in five minutes before the bell rang, dressed in a natty charcoal grey suit with a shirt that almost matched his eyes and a silvery tie.
Without a word or look at the class, he began to chalk his name, and the class title on the board. He used the full name and title, Professor Thomas Langely. The bell rang, and he turned to the class, putting down the chalk. He said briskly. "This is Elemental English 101. If you're looking for anything else, you're in the wrong room. My name is Professor Thomas Langely. You will refer to me as Professor Langely. Not Mr. Langely, not Professor." A straggler came in, and he said sharply. "You will be on time. If you are tardy, you will be counted absent. More than three unexcused absences will result in a failing grade. While in this class, you will be silent except for answering or asking questions, or mandatory class discussions. All material and assignments not turned in on time will automatically be lowered one grade for each day late. Abide by these rules and give me one hundred percent of your ability, and you'll get a grade that will mean something. I don't care how much other instructors may simplify their curriculum, this is not a gut course the way I teach it."
He opened his briefcase and removed an attendance book, opening it. "You will take your seats in alphabetical order." He looked at the page. "Benoit, Emily." He pronounced it Bee-note.
Bastard, I thought, as I gathered up my books. I told you my name. As I went to the front, I said, "That's Ben-wah, Professor Lang-lay."
He stiffened slightly, and called, "Bergan, Allen. Billings, Loraine..."
I sat in the front desk, only a few feet away from where he stood. When he had us seated to his satisfaction, we were informed that if we sat in another seat, it would count as an absence. Roll would be checked by the seating chart, so that no one could answer and cover for an absent friend.
Langely picked up a thick pile of pages stapled together in thin sheaves, and handed them to me. "This is the course syllabus. Pass it back." There were groans as the papers were distributed. Langely had laid out a heavy course. "In the highly unlikely event that I cannot teach a class, that does not mean that you have a free period. I will expect you to spend the time in the library. I've provided them with a sign in and out sheet." There were general groans, and Langely said, "Anyone who can't handle this is advised to drop right now, and not waste my time, or your own. This is college, people, not grade school."
"Really?" I murmured. "I thought perhaps it was Paris Island."
He'd been turning away to get his text book, and he snapped back around, eyes probing for whoever had made the remark. The class was silent, except for a nervous, half smothered giggle from someone in the back. I gazed back at him in wide eyed innocense. He couldn't prove who'd said it. His reluctance was clear, but he let it go.
"We'll start with a quiz to judge how much you already know." I just knew he was relishing the groans that went up at this declaration. I shook my head as I uncapped my pen. It was going to be a long semester.
The test seemed pathetically simple to me. Reading paragraphs, then answering questions about them. Stating the difference between a noun, a verb, and an adjective. Bonus point if we could explain an adverb. Conjugating a series of verbs. All around me there were stifled grunts of concentration or dismay, and the furious squeak of erasers. I finished quickly and sat back, arms folded and eyelids at half mast, waiting for Langely to call time.
He was writing something at his desk, glancing up now and then. When he noticed that I was sitting still, he looked displeased. He pointed silently at my paper, then motioned for me to bring it up. I did so.
As I stood beside him, he said, "You should use all the time available. If you aren't sure about an answer, at least try. I might give partial credit for a good effort, this time."
"Well, I'll tell you, Professor Lang-lay. I tried my best, but I just couldn't make that thing last the entire time."
"Give me that."
He took my paper and uncapped a red felt tip pen, staring at me in a 'now you're gonna get it' manner. He began to go down the page, touching the nib to the paper at each answer. As he read, his pen moved more and more slowly. Dot, dot, dot. At last he laid the page down. The only red marks on it were the spots he'd used to tick off each answer. He looked at me again. I didn't say anything, I didn't smile. I just raised my eyebrows a fraction. He angrily slashed a big red 100 at the top of the page.
I said, "Shouldn't that be 101? I believe I got the bonus point."
For a moment he just stared at me. Then he drew a line through the second 0, converting it to a 1. His pen almost ripped through the page. He motioned me to go back to my seat.
Score. At least, that's how it must have seemed to the rest of the class. When the bell rang, several of them paused to introduce themselves. I could take the time, since my lit class was just next door, and I didn't need to be flying across campus.
Langely, briefcase in hand, paused as he passed the little knot of people gathered around my desk. "Nice performance, Benoit." There wasn't anything really complimentary in his tone, and you could sense he wasn't referring just to my test score. He gave the small assembly of student's a tight, cold smile. "Guess they'll be able to thank you if the grading curve is ruined." He strode away.
"That SOB!" said little Loraine Billings. "He's trying to get us mad at you!"
"He must be," agreed a boy with a Moe Fine, soup bowl haircut. "Langely doesn't grade on a curve, never. I know because my brother had him last year, and my sister had him the year before. The classes begged him, both times. His response was 'Tough shit'." I looked at him skeptically, and he shrugged. "Or words to that effect."
"I'm glad to hear that's the case. 'Cause I'm sorry, kids, but I'm not going to pull back on this course. I have to keep my grade point up to keep getting my assistance, and I need to kick some butt where I can in case I hit a tough course. But if any of you need any help, maybe with tutoring or advice, I'm happy to oblige." I knew from listening to conversations during registration that peer tutoring was heavy on campus. Sometimes it was paid for, sometimes it was mutual, students swapping help in the subjects they knew best. I hadn't even been to Numbers Theory yet, but I knew I was going to need a tutor.
Children's Literature looked like it was going to be a fun class, but, again, a busy one. We were expected to read and summarize at least a hundred children's and young adults books by the end of the semester, along with storytelling and craft projects. I began to be glad that I was only working part time.
I was through with classes by noon, and decided to go to the cafeteria in the student center, rather than walking home to fix lunch. Now that both my parents were gone, I found myself feeling lonely. I was used to having someone else in the apartment. I'd insisted that the new owners allow me to keep my two cats, and they helped. But there just wasn't much opportunity for conversation.
There was a good selection of food, everything from salads and burgers to a set plate lunch. I had skipped breakfast. I hadn't eaten breakfast on a regular basis since my mother had stopped fixing it for me, back when I was in junior high. I just wasn't capable of the effort that early in the morning. Now I was starved.
I got a cheeseburger from the grill, and an order of french fries. I added a soda and a chunk of sinful looking chocolate cake, paid for my food, and made my way into the noisy, crowded eating area. I stopped at the entrance, surveying the scene doubtfully. There didn't seem to be an unoccupied table anywhere, not even a dirty one.
Then a table of students from my EE class, near one walls, spotted me, and waved me over. I was pleased. Even back in grade school, I hadn't always had someone to sit with at lunch.
There were four of them, including Loraine Bergan and the boy with the Three Stooges haircut, who turned out to be named Larry ("I know," he grinned. "Wrong 'do. But I hate perms, so it was this or get a Curly Cueball."). They made room for me at the tabletop, helping me unload my tray.
Larry looked past me and said, "Hey, Professor Langely. Mind if we borrow one of your chairs?"
I turned to see Langely sitting at a two person table against a pillar off to the side. He had the lunch special on the table before him, a newspaper in one hand, and a fork in the other. He was wearing a pair of wire rimmed reading glasses, the half lens type that always made me think of accountants in green eye shades and sleeve garters, sitting on tall stools. Instead of looking ridiculous, they went well with his grim good looks.
He looked at Larry, looked at me, then pushed the chair out with his foot, shook his paper, and went back to reading. Ever gracious. Larry, in a fit of chivalry he'd probably never expressed to anyone under fifty, got the chair and held it for me, as ceremoniously as an Edwardian footman seating a duchess.
I was the only female at the table who wasn't nibbling rabbit food and sipping mineral water or diet soda. When Tibbie Nelson, a blonde perhaps one step up from anorexic, lamented not being able to lose that last half pound, I magnanimously refrained from strangling her with my purse strap. Instead, I ate my lunch with good appetite, and we got acquainted.
They were more interested in me than I would have imagined. It seemed that I was something of a novelty. There were almost no students over thirty enrolled. Wonderful, I thought, squirting ketchup on my fries. They're casting me as den mother already. I talked about my history, and my plans for the future, telling them more about myself than I'd told anyone outside of Mrs. Kaplan.
I finished my cake, mashing the crumbs with my fork to get them all. I noticed a smear of chocolate icing on one finger. Miss Manners be damned, I was not going to lose a perfectly good taste of chocolate. I licked my finger clean, and was startled by the sudden screech of a chair being shoved back from a table with considerable force.
Langely was getting up. He shoved the chair back in with the same vehemence tossing the paper on the table. He removed his glasses with one hand and jammed them into his breast pocket, then strode off.
Larry released a gusty breath. "Whew! Glad he's gone. Emmie, did you two kill each other in a past life or something? He was giving you the hairy eyeball the entire time you were eating."
"I don't know what his problem is. Scratch that. He has so many problems that I can't single out just one that would explain it."
"Well, maybe you ought to kiss up, just a little. For your grade's sake."
I shook my head. "He'd loath a kiss up."
"How do you know that?"
"ESP."
"She's right," volunteered Loraine. "He shoots down any attempts to get close to him. You know, last year a girl I know made the mistake of trying to seduce him."
"What was she, a masochist?" I asked.
"No, she was one of those kids who's never had to work for anything. You know, kept a B average by bull shitting the female teachers and flirting with the males. Then she got to college and tried the same thing here. It worked pretty well till she tried it on Langely. He was as responsive as a pumpkin. When she found out she was getting a failing grade, the stupid bimbo tried to bribe him by offering a blowjob in his office. When he got up, she thought he was going to lock the door. Instead he went out, got the Dean of Students, and turned her in. She was suspended."
"There must be something wrong with him," declared the second boy. "It's not natural to turn down head." This statement was met with general agreement.
I was tired, but in good spirits, when I got home. The good spirits vanished when I opened the mail. My quarterly statement from my investment firm showed earnings far below the modest amount I had been expecting. If I didn't get some extra income soon, I was going to be in serious financial trouble.
What could I do? If I earned too much, my grant would be forfeited. Besides, I really didn't want to work more hours, at least not until I knew for sure I was going to be able to handle my course load without my grades suffering. I found the answer in the Student Daily, a tiny campus produced paper that listed events and ran classified ads. The ads offered used text books, guitars, second hand autos, and tutorial services. There was also a 'roommates Wanted' section.
That was the solution. I had a two bedroom apartment, and the extra space was just going to waste. Besides, it would be nice to have someone else around. If they turned out to be the roommate from hell, I wouldn't have any trouble replacing them. Space near the collage was at a premium.
I dialed the number given, and asked to submit the ad. I was informed that it would be ten dollars for ten words. I could give them the copy over the phone, then bring in the payment. I gave them the address, and was trying to word my message as efficiently as possible when the clerk said, "Say, are you offering this right away?"
"Sure, I don't see why not."
"Maybe I can save you ten bucks, and do a friend a favor. I know someone who needs a place close by, fast."
"Send them on over, and we'll see. If it doesn't work out, I'll call back."
"Great! Won't be but a few minutes."
I did a fast run through the apartment, picking up a few things and spraying freshener over the cats' litter box. I shut the cats, yelling in protest, in the bathroom as the doorbell rang.
I opened the door, and found myself eye to chest with a very tall young man. I craned my head up and found myself looking at a GQ model who had somehow escaped the glossy magazine cover. He gave me an open smile, hazel eyes bright and friendly. When he spoke, his accent was richly Teutonic, reminding me of every 'Ve haf vays uf making you talk, ja?" scene I'd ever seen. "Good afternoon, Miss Benoit? I am Kurt Bremin. You spoke with my friend at the newspaper. You have a room?"
"Oh. But... I wasn't expecting anyone so... so..."
He cocked his head. "So?"
"So male." I finished lamely.
He looked anxious. "Would this be a problem? Your landlord wouldn't allow?"
"My landlord doesn't have any say in this."
"Please consider, Miss Benoit. At least talk to me? I really need a place to stay."
I hesitated, but he looked so hopeful. It wouldn't hurt to at least find out a little about him, I decided. I could always say no. "Come on in."
He entered, brushing past me. Damn, this was a big man. He had to be at least 6'4", and there was around 220 pounds of sheer muscle and sinew packed on that frame. He was wearing a thin, sleeveless black T-shirt and a pair of painted on, washed out blue jeans. He was sleekly muscled, without the surreal proportions some bodybuilders get.
He had the most beautiful hair I've ever seen on a man, or a woman, for that matter. It was a heavy, wavy black mass that fell well past his shoulders, and he occasionally had to brush a strand out of his face and tuck it back behind his ear. His skin was pale, but not with the unhealthy pallor of someone who never sees the sun. In contrast, there was a faint, dark stubble of beard just sprouting on his jaw. I learned later that the term 'five o' clock shadow' was not just figurative where he was concerned.
I took him in the kitchen and offered tea or soda. He accepted a Dr. Pepper. When he opened it there was the familiar metallic click of a pop top being opened. The cat's in the bathroom, ever alert to kitchen noises, began howling again. His face lit up. "You have kitties?"
"Two. Would that be a problem?"
"No! Not at all. In fact I was hoping I could bring one. I volunteer at the animal shelter, and they have the nicest little kitten there. He's the only one left of his litter, and they're going to put him down if he doesn't get a home soon."
A man who liked cats. At his urging, I let my beasts out. They surprised me by making a beeline for our visitor, and flirting shamelessly. He responded with gentle words and caresses. His stock went up in my eyes.
"Tell me about yourself, Kurt. Tell me anything that might be significant, if you're going to live here."
"All right." He sipped his drink and started. He was an amazingly candid person, not at all secretive about his personal life.
"I'm twenty one. My family immigrated from Germany four years ago. My parents live in Dallas. I'm a drama major, and I'll be moving to New York when I graduate. I don't smoke, don't do drugs, don't drink much. But I am German, and I need my beer."
"No problem, as long as you don't let it make you stupid or destructive."
"I don't have a steady girlfriend right now, but I'm not a monk. Would I be able to bring friends here?"
"As long as you don't expect me to vacate so you can be alone with them. You'll have your room for that. And as long as it doesn't involve kids, critters, or the dearly departed, I don't mind."
"That was the next question. I'm bi." He looked for my reaction.
I shrugged. "Gives you better odds on finding a date on weekends."
He smiled. Kurt smiled a lot. "Then it wouldn't bother you if my guests and I..." He hesitated.
I said, "Go on and tell me. It's better I know right away. I might resent it if you tried to sneak something past on me."
"Oh, it's not like that. I'm not ashamed of my appetites. It's just that they're not...mainstream."
"Less mainstream than being bisexual?"
"I'm a Dom. Do you know what that is?"
I frowned. "You mean like Marlon Brando in The Godfather?"
"No, no. Dom, not don. A dominant."
Came the dawn. "Yes, Kurt. I read books. That's the controlling partner in bondage and discipline, or S and M, right? Though I don't believe I've ever actually run into someone who was into that."
"Don't be too sure. Not everyone is open about it. Anyway, I'm not into the more extreme end. It's mostly role playing, some bondage and discipline, perhaps a little spanking now and then."
I was fascinated. I'd never met anyone who was so up front about their sexuality, and I could tell that he wasn't doing it simply to shock me. "If you don't mind my saying so, Kurt. ...It's kind of hard to picture you 'forcing', and notice I put that in quotation marks, someone else. You just seem too nice."
He put down the soda, stood up, and walked around to my side of the table. He towered over me. Reaching down, he planted his hands on the chair back, trapping me between his arms, and leaned down till his face was close to mine. I leaned back, startled into immobility.
His eyes were no longer friendly, they were molten gold, boring into my own. He slowly licked his lips, and I felt a deep, unexpected shiver. His voice lashed me, low and rough, like someone stroking my bare skin with a towel. "You think I'm too nice? Oh, I can be very nice." He gave the word a twisting emphasis. "I could make you scream, for all kinds of reasons."
My breath started to get short. Then he stepped back with a sheepish shrug, the dangerous expression gone. "It's acting, you know? I'm good at it." It wasn't bragging. It was a simple statement of undeniable fact.
"Yes, you are." I wanted to fan myself, but resisted the urge. "So far, I don't see any problems. We could try it out for awhile. If it doesn't work, you'll at least have a chance to find somewhere else. Want to see the room?"
He was enthusiastic about the room, happy to share the bathroom and kitchen. He promised to contribute to the groceries as well as paying rent, and cook for us occasionally. "My father runs a restaurant. I make strudel to die for."
He was getting ready to go collect his things, when he stopped at the door, his face darkening. He seemed to be arguing with himself, then said reluctantly, "There's one more thing you should know. If you don't want me after you learn this, no hard feelings. I'll understand."
"What is it?"
"It's how I've been supporting myself."
I felt my heart sink. "Tell me you don't deal drugs."
He looked mildly offended. "I told you, no drugs."
"Are you hooking?" That seemed like a possibility, given his free attitudes about sex in general. I liked him already, but I couldn't have him turning tricks around my place.
"Hooking?" He looked puzzled, then his expression cleared. "Oh, prostitution. No, no, not that. I'm starring in videos. About two a month."
"Videos? What would be the problem with... Oh. Oh, those kind of videos."
"Yes. Would you mind?"
"No. It's your business, not mine. Just don't throw any cast parties without asking first, okay?"
Again the sunny grin. "Okay. You are one cold lady."
"Cold?"
"Um, wrong word. I still haven't got the American slang. That would be frigid?"
"No, I don't think so." I knew where he was going now, and was tickled. "Could you mean 'cool'?"
"Yes! Cool. And I can bring the cat?"
"Happy to have him. My brats can use some company."
And that was how I got my roommate. I reflected that it was just as well that Mom and Dad had passed on, because this would have most certainly killed them.
