Prompted

Synopsis: When an eccentric Boomer starts speaking her mind during a memoir class, tensions reach the exploding point as issues of race and gender take center stage. 20-minute read. Please comment below! 👇🏻

Albert is reading his writing. God, I don't think I can make it through. Albert likes to write about light through a window. Bowls of fruit. The wings of a bluebird. I don't think I can take it anymore. He shakes like a dildo while he's talking.  

The four of us gather in a small conference room at the Cold Spring Library for class once a week. Audre, some fancy African American studies professor from Bard, wears designer sunglasses and jots notes in her monogrammed Moleskin notebook with a mechanical pencil. She's a natural beauty with a long svelte frame. Albert is the Venezuelan equivalent of a shot of espresso. He's got a long, drawn-out face and teeth that chatter a bit while he's talking to you. Albert works as an exterminator, except he's afraid of mice. He's going to community college at night. Then there's Per, a chubby, ponytailed Norwegian built for cinematography and farting, and of course, me.

Good Lord, we're quite a crew.

 "Albert!" I say.

"Excuse me," he says as he lowers his glasses.

"You gotta have something better than this." 

"Joan," murmurs Eddie, our Millennial Teacher. "We do not comment on others' work like that. Please remember our class rules. Please keep it constructive."

"For Chrissake, that man lived through Chavez, hyperinflation, the world's highest homicide rate. Write about that!" I say.

"That might be what you would write about, Joan, but it's not what Albert wants to write about," replies Eddie.

"I…I…I am willing to write about that," Albert sputters, "But I need to warm up first."

"What do you need to warm up for Albert? Just take a swing at it." I say.

"Joan, I'm sorry," says Eddie, his eyebrows knit in disdain, "but if you comment in a discouraging way, I will have to ask you to leave. It is against our community guidelines."

"Guidelines…" I mutter.

"I wonder…" offers Audre, laying her reading glasses down like she's gonna smack me in the face with a kid glove. "...if Albert's descriptive writing is a protest."

"A protest!? Against what?! The fruit industry!?" I say.

"No. A focus on life's simple moments is, in a way, a repudiation of the rapacious consumerism all around us. The Transcendentalists made this point in the 19th century."

"Per, you're gonna need to translate that into English for me." I say.

"I speak English, Joan. Watch yourself now," says Audre.

"It was a matter of speech," I say.

"It's called a microaggression, Joan. And it is certainly intentional," she replies.

"A microaggression? What the hell is that?"

 "I think we should get back to Albert's writing," says Eddie.

"I agree with Eddie,” says Audre, “Albert deserves to be encouraged, not demeaned."

"Fine. Okay. Let's hear more fruit writing,” I say.

Per is staring at me.

"What are you staring at, Per?"

Per looks like he eats a lot of salmon. Like he's made from Viking helmets and bear balls. Now HE lays down his glasses. Bifocals. What is this, the OK Corral?

"You okay, Joan?"

"When have I ever been okay, Per!?"

Now, I'm shaking like a dildo. Per reapplies his bifocals.

"Settle down then."

"Settle down, my ass," I mutter.

Ok, so maybe I got a little lippy. Still, that fat Norwegian shouldn't talk to me like that, even if he is my husband.

----------

 August 27th, 2021

Today, our writing prompt is "locale." Well, my locale is Cold Spring, New York. Cold Spring is one of those quaint Hudson Valley towns filled with bed and breakfast joints, quilting classes, Patagonia dealers, and Brooklyn day trippers with mewling newborns in papoose hiking backpacks. Who hikes with a six-month-old baby? Ugh. There's a general store that pedals overpriced tchotchkes to the city slickers, a juice bar with enough kale to make you shit for days, and antique stores that smell like moss and soggy baseball cards. Then, of course, there's a dive bar. Every town in America has a dive bar. Not that I spend any time in the dive bar. Last week, I kicked my last addiction, Amazon shopping, through disciplined weaning. Heroin was easier.

 "Two more minutes," chirps Eddie.

Per convinced me to take the class with him. I told him we wouldn't fit in, that the course would be filled with lefties. But he says I have a keen observation and a sharp wit. Of course, he's usually drunk when he says it, but it's still sweet. So, I agreed. How much do memoirs go for?

 "Okay! Time to read! Who would like to start?" says Eddie. 

Eddie wears a candy cane-striped button-down to every class, a gay pride pin, and a chronic smile under his mask, which I determined by the crow's feet around his eyes.

"Per, why don't you read first," says Eddie.

I let out a groan.

"Joan, I'll ask again; please keep it to yourself."

"Fine. Go ahead, sweetheart."

Per stands. He's the only one who stands when he reads his work. It's fine; I'm not judging. But he needs to get a belt. He looks sloppy with his paunch hanging out of his Toughskins.

"When I first met her," he pontificates. "She was engaged. A guy from IBM. She had her hair pulled back in a beehive hairdo. Neat, trimmed fingernails. That's what I remember the most. Her neat fingernails. And her fiery red hair."

"He ain't talking about me, in case you want to know," I whisper to Audre.

"Not all of my stories need to be about you, my love," Per whispers back.

 "Continue, Per," says Eddie.

"She was proper, polite. She was from Texas; her dad worked for Texaco, I think, as an engineer, and her mom was a housewife and worked at a college. Her eyes were different. Blazing. Just blazing. And she moved… Funny. Her mannerisms were quirky; she would suddenly stop listening to you and say, "Isn't the sunlight just gorgeous, sweetheart" or "I think the air is a little clearer today. Once, she sang me a song she was working on…."

 "Take another piece of my heart," I mouth with him. "It's Janis Joplin," I say.

 "Oh my God is that true!?" asks Eddie.

 "Well...." Says Per.

"Per, You're sixty! She was dead before you were ten. And pull up your goddamn pants, for Chrissake." I say. "You look like you ought to be climbing an electric pole."

"Okay, the two of you…."

"He has a thing about Janis Joplin. It's just bizarre. I mean, the Kardashians, maybe, but Janis Joplin? She's been dead for decades," I say.

"Please, Please, Joan. Thank you, um, Per," stutters Eddie. "It's a lovely story."

"If you want to fuck a corpse," I murmur.

Eddie does another big sigh. I don't think he's smiling under his mask anymore. Audre titters again. Maybe I like her.

"I'm not quite done," says Per.

"He doesn't want to hear more of your Joplin porn, Per!" I say, "Jesus, take a hint!"

"They," Eddie says.

"Excuse me?" I say.

"They. My pronoun is they," he replies. "Per, the piece is lovely; I like how you…."

"You didn't ask me what my pronoun is," I interrupt.

"I'm very sorry. What is your pronoun?" replies Eddie.

"She. It's she."

"Sure, of course! I think that's what I've been using, but whatever…."

"And I'd like to read if I could." I say.

"I don't think we are done with comments for Per."

"It's okay. Joan can read." Per says.

"Are you sure?" says Eddie.

"Yes. Yes. It's fine,"

"Okay. Then Joan will read. Proceed!"

"I'm sorry but isn't Albert next?" says Audre. "Who was first last week?" 

"He was," I say, pointing to Albert. "Or do you go by ‘they’ too?"

"I go by ‘Albert.’"

"Right. So, they will read third…." says Eddie.

"Who?" I say.

"I go by ‘they’ too," says Audre.

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" I reply.

"Okay, so they're third. He was first. So Joan is second..." stammers Eddie.

How do “gender-fluid” people order food? Reservations? Book flights? Do gays need all these categories for themselves?

"Per, Joan, Audre,"  Eddie says, half shouting.

"Then me, right?" I say.

"Right." he replies.

"Not Audre."

"No."

"So, it's my turn. Since Per already went."

"Correct."

Eddie seems pissed and is working to keep it together—poor guy.

"Well, at least we got that all cleared up!" I say. "Okay. This is called ‘Per and me in the swing.’"

"Joan…"

"No, Per, you don't like it when I tell you to be quiet, and I sure as hell don't think you should be telling me to be quiet!"

"Fine. It's indelicate. It's tasteless, is all."

"Oh, but your Janis Joplin porn is the height of decorum!? These people should know why I'm married to you because it sure isn't for the money."

"Okay… Can we just get to the story…" moans Eddie.

"Per owns an antique store and makes jewelry; I got some of it here! But he sure isn't Norwegian nobility like he said on our first date!" I say.

"We got it. Joan, the story…." says Eddie.

"Right Per? Right?" I say.

"I am related to…." he pontificates.

"Enough! Enough between you two. Enough, please. Please."

Eddie does a big sigh. Audre titters. I glare at her. Maybe I don't like her.

"I've seen your posts online," whispers Audre to Per. "Your jewelry is exquisite."

"Thank you," says Per, all soft and cuddly.

My face is turning hot. Now, I’m gritting my teeth and looking at some scratches on the conference room table. I can feel everybody's eyes on me. In my head, I hear my sobriety coach say, “deep breaths, Joan, deep breaths.” Why can't I talk to him like that? I know I get mouthy. I know I get defensive. But it doesn’t mean I don’t care about the guy. I thought he’d laugh at my story. He’s got a great laugh, a deep, slow rolling chuckle that washes over you like river water. 

I’m a shithead. It's not his fault he's a fat smelly bowl of mutton and not a Norwegian prince.

-----------------------------------------------------------

September 1st

Albert took my advice and decided to write about his time in Venezuela. He's reading his piece now for the class. He still shakes like Parkinson's, but somehow, it has more purpose. Like some spirit is coming out of him, begging to be released. I know a little of that.

He starts slowly. It looks like he's sweating a bit. I can see his pulse in a vein in his neck. And he keeps picking at the "Walco Pest Control" patch on his shirt.

"It started with a snake bite," he says. "We had a small farm, my friend Manuel and I.  Mostly sugarcane, rice… I don't know how to say the other crops. I was cutting the sugarcane with my machete. The wood base was very hard, and I had to take many chops. We had to choose between sugar cane seeds to plant for the next crop or food. Everything cost so much that we could not afford both. So we picked the sugar cane. How else were we to live? So I had not eaten. And the sun was scorching. And I was very wet and sweaty. My eyes, how do you say…?"

"Vision?" says Audre.

"Yes, my vision. I'm sorry. I know this word," replies Albert.

"Albert, your English is excellent. Please continue," says Eddie.

"Thank you. So my vision was blurry. I did not see the snake curled on the cane."

Audre gasps. Albert unrolls his sleeve. Two large red dots like demon eyes.

"It bit me."

"My God! Albert!" blurts Eddie.

"The pain was incredible. I felt it shoot up my arm, a burning sensation like electricity. I shook my arm to shake him off, but the more I shook, the more it bit down. Manuel took my machete, grabbed its tail, and hacked its body off. It took ten minutes to pry its teeth out of my skin."

"Okay, I want to hear this, but I think a content warning would have been nice. I have a thing about snakes," says Audre.

"A content warning? What the hell is that?" I say.

"A heads up. About the graphic nature of the piece," says Eddie. 

"Life is graphic. Poverty is graphic," says the Norwegian Prince of Pontification.

"I know what poverty feels like, Per; thank you. Please don't mansplain," says Audre.

"He does that all the time. Isn't it annoying?" I say.

"Albert, can we skip over some of the graphic parts?" offers Eddie.

"No, no, it's okay. Your story is very compelling, Albert. Let's hear the rest. I'm fine." says Audre.

"Are you sure?" says Eddie.

"Yes."

"Well, okay. I was in bed for two months. Eventually, the pain in my arms and head was so great that I could not talk. I was losing weight. I couldn't eat. None of the hospitals had an antidote. Manuel's mother was Wayuu, and she knew of many healing herbs. Manuel made a tea of bark and flowers; I remember the petals floating in the water. The tea stopped the pain in my head. After that, I started to feel better. Slowly I could eat; whatever we could forage, the shops had shortages. Mostly chickens that Manuel would kill and cook. "

"Wait, you can eat bloody chickens, but you're afraid of mice?" I say.

"I am not afraid of mice," says Albert stoically.

"Good, because there's one right by your foot," I say.

“Where?" he stammers.

Now Albert is jumping from one foot to the other, eyes darting about the floor. 

"There is no mouse, Albert," says Eddie. "THERE'S NO MOUSE."

"I, I am fine; I am fine with the mouse," he replies, still hopping.

"He doesn't look fine," I mutter.

"She's joking, Manuel. There's no mouse. Okay? There's no mouse," says Eddie. 

Eddie looks like he's contemplating kicking me out, and Audre's lips are puckered. I offer a quick apology. I don't want to get kicked out. This class is too much fun.

 "I am sorry, Albert," I say with much sincerity. "Just having a little fun. Sorry, it won't happen again."

After a moment, Eddie says: “Please continue, Albert.” Albert gives one last glance to the floor and then resumes.

“After the bite, we decided to leave Venezuela. It was a hard decision, but I could not chop cane anymore; my arm was significantly weakened. And we could not afford food; the prices were so incredibly high.

We borrowed a little money from Manuel's mother. Then, we put a plan together to cross the Simon Bolivar bridge into Cucuta, Colombia. The guards do not check papers there if you pay them.  From there, we would make our way to Panama. Manuel has a cousin in Panama City.

One morning, we gathered some things. Mostly clothes for the cold. The passage through Columbia goes through the mountains, which can get very cold at night. We had one backpack; Manuel gave it to me. He used a trash bag for his belongings. Once we got past the bridge into Cucuta, Colombia, we found some guides who promised to take us into the mountains and lead us through the Darien Gap between Columbia and Panama. We started up the road that leads out of Cucuta into the Andes.”

Per looks a little like he’s about to fall asleep. His eyes keep dropping, then his head. I give him a kick in the leg.

“Wake up, you big oaf!” I say.  “Sorry, Albert. Per watches the History Channel while eating canned grape leaves all night. Continue. It’s an amazing story. Really.”

“I don’t eat canned grape leaves. Baklava or sometimes, custard.” he replies.

“You should see his shirt in the morning.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much for that, Joan. I think we're good… I think we're good… on that…topic… back to you, Albert.” Eddie says as he rubs his nose.

 By the way, I meant it when I said I liked Albert’s story. He starts again.

“Some volunteers passed out water and bars for us to eat, but I was still starving. My legs were shaking. Manuel, who was much stronger than me, was covered in sweat. As the sun went down, we found a small roadside shelter. We bedded down on the floor because the cots were all taken. My arm was in great pain. I could not sleep. I rolled over and over, and the temperature dropped. Manuel started to shiver, mainly because his shirt was still wet with sweat. He did not want to take the shirt off because it was cold. I tried to wrap my arms around him to make him warmer. One of the guides saw this and looked angry. He had tattoos all over his neck. I could tell from his tattoos he was Tren de Aragua, a gang member. I tried telling Manuel we should not follow these guides, but we had no choice. All the guides are gang members; some kill you, some make you work for the gang, and some take you to safety. So we took a chance."

Eddie seems on the verge of tears.

"Oh, my God. What, what happened?" he pants.

"Okay. Well. No. I think… I think I will stop here… it is difficult…."

"That's fine, Albert! That's fine. We respect your limits." says Audre.

"Sure, take a break," offers Per.

"You can read more at a different time."

"What, you're just going to leave us hanging!?" I say.

"Joan!" says Eddie.

"I want to know what the hell happens!? So you're trekking out of Venezuela with your gay lover after a snakebite? This is good stuff!"

"I did not say we were lovers."

"Yea, but common."

"I did not."

"Okay, Joan, you don't need to push him around," says Audre.

"Oh what, you didn't think Manuel was his lover? What, we're not supposed to tell the truth here!? I thought this was a memoir class!? I thought we were supposed to write the truth!" I say. 

Look, I’m okay with Manuel being a homo. I think people ought to live how they want to live. But I don’t want it in my face all the time. I’m going to change the channel if it’s a movie with two dudes fucking, but it doesn’t mean I HATE them. I don’t think the gays need all sorts of pronouns, but it doesn’t mean I HATE THEM. “Hate” is a strong word. That’s what my mom always used to say.

Then again, she also whipped me with a leather belt. 

"But Joan, we each have the right to tell our stories at our own pace. In our own time," says Eddie.

 "Right. I'm just saying I'm ready to hear the story, don't make me wait another week. This is good, Albert! I mean, this is a fantastic story! Much better than the fruit shit. You got to keep going with it."

"No, he doesn't. And I think waiting will be good for you, Joan," says Audre.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I say.

"I think perhaps," starts Audre, sticking her chest out and lifting her glasses to the bridge of her nose.

“I think perhaps..” you are an entitled bitch, MAGA, or some other nonsense. Black people are excellent at stereotyping. Why is that?

"Audre …" says Eddie.

"Eddie," says Audre before turning her attention back to me, "I think dealing with frustration and not getting what you want is probably good for you.”

“Entitled Bitch” it is. My dad fought in Korea, then left the family for a black nurse he met in Newburg after the war. My mom raised my brother and me in a two-room apartment in Beacon in the 1970s; we were the only white family in town. All my friends were black. Some of them are still my friends. But I’m an entitled racist bitch? Fuck this.

"Well, from the look of your little designer passenger bag there, it seems you get quite a lot of what you want," I say.

 "You know what? I don't need to respond to that. I'm above it."

"The truth comes out. You think you're above me.”

"I didn't say I was above YOU. I said I was above your INSULT."

 "Okay, let's refocus." Eddie is scrambling now. Too late. It’s on.

"I don't believe it. I think you think you are better than me."

"We are not going here, ladies!"

Now Audre starts to pack her little designer passenger bag, which probably costs as much as Albert has ever earned. Huh. She’s got a flask in there. 

"I will not… I will not respond…."

"Not much you can say, I suppose."

"Audre, don’t leave."

"This is naked aggression, Eddie!”

Now Audre takes a big breath and folds her hands at her heart like she’s praying.  She looks like the Buddha on Adderall.

"I am not going to be the angry black woman here. I will not play into the narrative you would love me to be a part of, Joan. I'm not going to do that."

"I just think…."

"Oh, Per, just stay out of it."

"I think we should resume next week."

"So she can insult me again?" I say.

"Hold on, Audre, we can work through this," says Eddie.

"Good afternoon," says Audre as she heads for the door.

 "Great. Maybe you can pick me up one of your fancy bags. Mine is falling apart." I say.

"Why are you doing this!?" Per says.

"She is not superior to me! I may not be a professor of African American studies or whatever."

"Let's drop the whatever part, Joan.” says Audre, taking her hand off the door and coming back into the room. “Being a professor is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life."

"It doesn't make you better than me."

"No one ever said I was better than you, Joan. But do you want me to put my cards on the table? Would you like that?"

"Yes, I would."

"Okay, here we go. FIRST, I don’t teach African America Studies, nor am I African American. News flash Joan, not all black people are African! I teach at the Center for Latin American and Carribean Studies, I am Creole Dutch Antillean and proudly American. SECOND, you assume a black woman should not have a designer handbag; that is absolute bullshit."

"I never said that!"

"Oh, it's implicit. And I've seen your comments online. About the Drag Queen Story Hour at the library? You called a transgender person an abomination."

Eddie gasps.

"I deleted that comment!"

I said it’s an abomination to teach kids to be transgender, not that transgender people were an abomination. I say things that pop into my head; I know it’s not the best habit. My sponsor says I’m bipolar, and I need to control the stream of thoughts. I thought I deleted that comment before anyone saw it…? All the blood is rushing to my cheeks; I’m so fucking embarrassed. Can’t I have a terrible day without getting arrested by the woke police?

"You've bullied Albert from the moment he..." continues Audre.

"I do not feel bullied."

"There you go. And he just wrote the best story of his life."

"Let me guess. It's because of you, Joan."

"No. But I helped."

"You speak out of a sense of privilege."

"I have no problem with that."

 "No, no privilege is not the same as PRIDE! Not the same, Joan."

"Oh, I know where you're going with this..."

"It is biased..."

"She's calling me a racist."

"IT IS BIASED TO HATE SOMEONE FOR THEIR OTHERNESS. That is a fact; it doesn't matter that you deleted the comment; it existed. Shit, hell, you deleted the comment, you people…."

"What people!? White people?"

"There is a history of white suppression in this country, Joan. I am not making this up!"

"Audre, I am not trying to silence you…." Eddie says.

"That's a good thing. Let's go with that!"

"But I suggest we turn the heat down on this conversation..."

"OH, IT'S HOT, EDDIE. IT’S HOT. You want an angry black woman, Joan. Let's do it. Let's do it."

Dammit, I can't get my hands to stop shaking. How did we get here? I just wanted to compliment Albert; now it’s World War Three.

"Audre, that's enough. She may be a pain in the ass, but she's still my wife. So please show some respect.”

I hate it when Pear defends me. First, he lifts his chin high in the air like a chevalier, then, to bring home his point, dips his chin to look you straight in the eye. But his mammoth corduroys are stained with oil spilled from the tin of grape leaves he vacuumed into his face last night. Let’s say it belies his intent.

"Respect!? Respect!? Let's talk about respect, Per. Let's have an honest discussion about respect."

"STOP. WE SHOULD STOP TALKING NOW," says Eddie.

"Your wife called someone an abomination on social media because they were different from her. Is that respectful? Does that promote compassion? Understanding? Yes, let's talk about respect."

"Audre , STOP TALKING."

"I will not stop talking, Eddie!

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean ‘stop talking’... I wasn't trying to silence you…." splutters Eddie.

"Don't backtrack, Eddie!" I say.

"Yes, backtrack, Eddie," replies Audre. "Have you read On Democracy, Eddie? Or Ta-Nehisi Coates? White Fragility? How to be an Anti-Racist? The time is over for appeasement."

"I'm aware, but we can't conduct a class… if…."

"I am not a racist!" I blurt.

"Uh-huh. Bias is bias, Joan. The children at the library have compassion for people who are different. Why can't you!?" Audre sneers.

"ENOUGH!" roars Eddie.

Now Eddie is shaking. He takes a few breaths. He pulls his enormous glasses up over the bridge of his nose.

"This is what is wrong with our country right now. We cannot understand each other's points of view. This classroom will remain a safe space, and I mean it. If each of you needs to review the code of conduct to ensure a safe, creative, harmonious learning experience, I am more than happy to re-forward it to you. In the meantime, the class is dismissed until further notice. You are all to leave and reflect on your behavior. I will leave last. After I've done some smudging."

"Joan, I think you should be the first to go," Eddie says.

"Fine."

Of course, I have to be the first to go. Audre called me a racist, but I’m in the wrong. Whose the entitled one?

"Are you coming, Per? Per?"

The oaf sits there. He looks at me long and slowly, pondering something big.

"I'm not coming, Joan. I'm staying at my brother's place tonight."

"Why? What the hell, Per?"

He's silent. Looking at the floor. I feel the blood rush to my face again. I’m blinking over and over. I wasn’t expecting this. Oh God, why am I such a fuck up? Why in God's name am I such a fuck up!?

"Fine. That's fine. I'll see you tomorrow then." I say.

I start packing my stuff into my old leather $20 handbag that I got at a flea market. All I own is there these days; sunglasses, a few stray bills, the pocket Pema Chodron I read daily, Tic Tacs, phone, and my address book with my Narc Anon numbers. I feel so damned worked up, but I'm not saying shit. My anger has gotten me in enough trouble today. Pema says to sit with your feelings and drop the storyline. I have so many storylines in my head that I don't know where to start.

"I deleted that post. I deleted it! And you don’t get my intention…with…it. Oh, forget it. Forget it."

What I really want to say is there’s no tolerance anymore. No patience. No dissent. Eddie says we can’t understand each other’s point of view, but the real issue is Audre isn’t willing to tolerate dissent, and I am. We could talk if she could tolerate my point of view as I tolerate her point of view. I wouldn’t say I like her point of view, but I tolerate it. Every contemporary dictator, from Franco to Castro to Chavez, was a leftist intent on democracy. The wokesters, like the dictators, are wolves in sheep's clothing. They say they want equal rights but want to dominate more; they demand your submission. You can’t say what you really mean anymore, and that's not freedom. That's not democracy. Don’t get me started. This country’s going to hell in a handbasket.

I want some fucking Southern Comfort and a speedball, so I gotta call my sponsor asap. I told Per we were not a fit for this class. People like this don't like people like us.

Albert looks at me sadly, his little passenger bag on the table.

"Thank you, Joan," he says.

"Thank you for what?! What possible good could’ve come out of me today?" I say.

"You pushed me to write my truth. And now I think I have a story."

Oof. Suddenly, I have this ball of emotion in my throat. It feels hot and sticky, like a molten lacrosse ball. I feel like bursting.

"You're welcome," I manage.

Jesus, I’d kill a monk for a bottle of whiskey.

"Albert, before I go..." I say.

Everybody gets all squirmy, but I know they don't want more confrontation, so I got free license. Fuck ‘em.

"If you don't mind... Would you mind telling me the end of your story? What happens to Manuel?"

Albert starts fiddling with his patch again. Tapping his finger on the table.

"Goodbye, Joan!" says Eddie firmly.

"I mean, there is a Manuel, right?"

"There doesn't need to BE A MANUEL, Joan.”

"Right, Albert!?"

“JOAN…”

"I mean, you didn’t….”

“JOAN…”

“You didn’t make him up, right?”

“EVEN IF IT IS A PIECE OF FICTION, THAT’S FINE, NOW LEAVE JOAN!"

"I just thought this was a memoir class," I say.

"Memoir can MEAN MANY THINGS," says Eddie

"Is bullshit one of them?" I say.

Well, now all hell breaks loose. Audre splutters to herself, trying to find the right invective for me. Per gets up like he will leave but falls back in his seat because he's such a lard ass.

"I would like to speak," says Albert.

"Joan, so help me, God," says Eddie.

"So help you God what, Eddie?" I say.

“I have something to say,” Albert repeats.

"So help me, God, if you..."

"If I what, Eddie, stop mumbling to yourself and spit it out!"

"SO HELP ME, GOD, IF YOU DON’T LEAVE THIS CLASS, I WILL KICK YOU OUT MYSELF, YOU RACIST, HOMOPHOBIC, SMALL-MINDED, NASTY LITTLE BITCH!"

Everybody freezes. Audre looks all, "oh no, he didn't."

"At least I know the real Eddie now," I say. "Maybe you ought to write about him."

Well, there it is. Racist, homophobic, and small-minded. The triple crown. Now I’m just curling my fingers in a ball repeatedly. I feel like punching Eddie and watching the blood trickle down his face. Deep down, however, some small part of me wonders if everything he said is true.

“The story is true,” says Albert.

"You don't need to explain yourself," says Eddie.

“You certainly don’t,” I say. “Great story, regardless.”

I open the French doors of the conference room and step into the library's main room. I close them gently and pretend to look at my phone, but mostly, I’m looking at the class out of my peripheral vision. Eddie is saying, "let's wait until she leaves." What a little douche. 

Per has his hands clasped before him, and he looks solemn. What nonsense. He'll come back to me when he’s drunk and wants to fuck. I have no idea what I’ll do if he doesn’t. Most likely, I’ll start drinking again.

I peek at Albert. He's staring at me almost, like, longingly. Like he's gonna miss me. He gives me a little smile. I give him one too.

What do you know? I think I’m gonna miss the little Queer.