For some reason yesterday I got to gabbing with Ms. Wild Rice and telling more stories from my wild 'n crazy grad school days. One of them was about Mark, another student in the English program. Mark (I forget his last name) was from England and had an accent that was almost Irish, but woe betide the ignorant soul who assumed he was Irish. He was about 5'4" and couldn't have weighed more than 110 pounds even while holding the complete works of Shakespeare. You'd seldom catch him doing so; I seem to recall that he specialized in poetry of more recent vintage. He did not drive, but rode everywhere on a battered bike and was easily recognizable by his bright-orange hooded sweatshirt. Well, it started out bright orange, but a year of Maine mud beat it into terra cotta submission.
Mark's other distinguishing characteristic was that he appeared to survive almost entirely on a diet of Guinness stout. People joked that a pint of Guinness was so thick and heavy as to be a meal in itself, and Mark took that seriously. I did see him eat occasionally, but most of the times we ended up at our favorite watering hole, Pat's Pizza, it was stout and smokes and "you Americans cannot possibly understand British literature" for him. He liked to think chicks dug the cynicism.
One chick did for sure, and that was my officemate Kate. She dated Mark for much of my second year in the program, so I got to see plenty of his soulful dark eyes around the office. He and Kate argued -- er, debated -- a lot, sometimes distracting themselves to the point that they'd forget to leave the office to meet the rest of us somewhere, sometimes driving me out because I couldn't stand the bickering. Mark carried on an outrageous flirtation with me, knowing I was unlikely to succumb to his charms. His nickname for me was Batchick (the only nickname I've ever had that stuck for any length of time) based on the long black cloak Mother Media had sent me as a birthday gift.
Anyway, ramble ramble, that was 9 years ago. I've long since lost track of
Mark. He sent me a postcard once, but I couldn't read the return address to
send a reply. I still think of him sometimes when I wear my batcape, and
when I drink Guinness.