Thanks for the Memories (2 page)
Hold it, Justin. Move your eyes away from the cup and assess the situation. Woman on podium, five hundred kids. All staring at you. Say something. Something intelligent.
“I’m confused,” he announces to the darkness, behind which he senses some sort of life-form. There are twitters in the room, t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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and he feels all eyes on him as he moves back toward the door to check the number.
Don’t spill the coffee. Don’t spill the damn coffee. He opens the door, allowing shafts of light to sneak in again, and the students in its line shade their eyes.
Twitter, twitter, nothing funnier than a lost man. Laden down with items, he manages to hold the door open with his leg. He looks back to the number on the outside of the door and then back to his sheet, the sheet that, if he doesn’t grab it that very second, will float to the ground. He makes a move to grab it. Wrong hand. Styrofoam cup of coffee falls to the ground. Closely followed by sheet of paper.
Damn it! There they go again, twitter, twitter. Nothing funnier than a lost man who has spilled his coffee and dropped his schedule.
“Can I help you?” The lecturer steps down from the podium. Justin brings his entire body back into the classroom, and darkness resumes.
“Well, it says here . . . well, it said there”—he nods his head toward the sodden sheet on the ground—“that I have a class here now.”
“Enrollment for international students is in the exam hall.”
He frowns. “No, I—”
“I’m sorry.” She comes closer. “I thought I heard an American accent.” She picks up the Styrofoam cup and throws it into the bin, over which a sign reads “No Drinks Allowed.”
“Ah . . . oh . . . sorry about that.”
“Graduate students are next door.” She adds in a whisper,
“Trust me, you don’t want to join this class.”
Justin clears his throat and corrects his posture, tucking the folders tighter under his arm. “Actually, I’m lecturing the History of Art and Architecture class.”
“You’re lecturing?”
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“Guest lecturing. Believe it or not.” He blows his hair up from his sticky forehead. A haircut, remember to get a haircut. There they go again, twitter, twitter. A lost lecturer who’s spilled his coffee, dropped his schedule, is about to lose his folders, and needs a haircut. Definitely nothing funnier.
“Professor Hitchcock?”
“That’s me.” He feels the folders slipping from under his arm.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t know . . .” She catches a folder for him. “I’m Dr. Sarah Fields from the IBTS. The faculty told me that I could have a half hour with the students before your lecture, your permission pending, of course.”
“Oh, well, nobody informed me of that, but that’s no problemo.” Problemo? He shakes his head at himself and makes for the door. Starbucks, here I come.
“Professor Hitchcock?”
He stops at the door. “Yes.”
“Would you like to join us?”
I most certainly would not. There’s a cappuccino and cinnamon muffin with my name on them. No. Just say no.
“Um . . . nn-es.” Nes? “I mean yes.”
Twitter, twitter, twitter. Lecturer caught out. Forced into doing something he clearly didn’t want to do by attractive young woman in white coat claiming to be a doctor of an unfamiliar initialized organization.
“Great. Welcome.”
She places the folders back under his arm and returns to the podium to address the students.
“Okay, attention, everybody. Back to the initial question of blood quantities. A car accident victim may require up to thirty units of blood. A bleeding ulcer could require anything between three and thirty units of blood. A coronary artery bypass may use between one and five units of blood. It varies, but with such quantities needed, now you see why we always want donors.”
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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Justin takes a seat in the front row and listens with horror to the discussion he’s joined.
“Does anybody have any questions?”
Can you change the subject?
“Do you get paid for giving blood?”
More laughs.
“Not in this country, I’m afraid.”
“Does the person who is given blood know who their donor is?”
“Donations are usually anonymous to the recipient, but products in a blood bank are always individually traceable through the cycle of donation—testing, separation into components, storage, and administration to the recipient.”
“Can anyone give blood?”
“Good question. I have a list here of donor disqualifications. Please all study it carefully, and take notes if you wish.” Dr. Fields places her sheet under the projector, and her white coat lights up with a rather graphic picture of someone in dire need of a donation. She steps away, and it fills the screen on the wall. People groan and the word “gross” travels around the tiered seating like a wave. Twice by Justin. Dizziness overtakes him, and he averts his eyes from the image.
“Oops, wrong sheet,” Dr. Fields says cheekily, slowly replacing it with the promised list. Justin searches with great hope for needle or blood phobia in an effort to eliminate himself as a possible blood donor. No such luck—not that it matters, as the chances of him donating a drop of blood to anyone are as rare as ideas in the morning.
“Too bad, Dover.” Another scrunched ball of paper goes flying from the back of the hall to hit Ben’s head again. “Gay people can’t donate.”
Ben coolly raises a middle finger in the air.
“That’s discriminatory,” one girl calls out.
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“It is also a discussion for another day,” Dr. Fields responds, moving on. “Remember, your body will replace the liquid part of the donation within twenty-four hours. With a unit of blood at almost a pint, and everyone having eight to twelve pints of blood in their body, the average person can easily spare giving one.”
Pockets of juvenile laughter at the innuendo.
“Everybody, please.” Dr. Fields claps her hands, trying desperately to get attention. “Blood for Life Week is all about education as much as donation. It’s all well and good that we can have a laugh and a joke, but at this time I think it’s important to note the fact that someone’s life, be it woman, man, or child, could be depending on you right now.”
How quickly silence falls upon the class. Even Justin stops talking to himself.
r o f e s s o r H i t c h c o c k . ” D r . F i e l d s a p p r o a c h e s JusP tin, who is arranging his notes at the podium while the students take a five-minute break.
“Please call me Justin, Doctor.”
“Please call me Sarah.” She holds out her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Sarah.”
“I just want to make sure we’ll see each other later?”
“Later?”
“Yes, later. As in . . . after your lecture.” She smiles. Is she flirting? It’s been so long, how am I supposed to tell?
Speak, Justin, speak.
“Great. A date would be great.”
She purses her lips to hide a grin. “Okay, I’ll meet you at the main entrance at six, and I’ll bring you across myself.”
“Bring me across where?”
“To where we’ve got the blood drive set up. It’s beside the rugby pitch, but I’d prefer to bring you over myself.”
“The blood drive . . .” He’s immediately flooded with dread.
“Ah, I don’t think that—”
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“And then we’ll go for a drink after?”
“You know what? I’m just getting over the flu, so I don’t think I’m eligible for donating.” He parts his hands and shrugs.
“Are you on antibiotics?”
“No, but that’s a good idea, Sarah. Maybe I should be . . .” He rubs his throat.
“Oh, I think you’ll be okay.” She laughs.
“No, you see, I’ve been around some pretty infectious diseases lately. Malaria, smallpox, the whole lot. I was in a very tropical area.” He remembers the list of contraindications. “And my brother, Al? Yeah, he’s a leper.” Lame, lame, lame.
“Really.” She lifts an eyebrow, and though he fights it with all his will, he cracks a smile. “How long ago did you leave the States?”
Think hard, this could be a trick question. “I moved to London three months ago,” he finally answers truthfully.
“Oh, lucky for you. If it was two months, you wouldn’t be eligible.”
“Now hold on, let me think . . .” He scratches his chin and randomly mumbles months of the year aloud. “Maybe it was two months ago. If I work backward from when I arrived . . .” He trails off while counting his fingers and staring off into the distance with a concentrated frown.
“Are you afraid, Professor Hitchcock?” She smiles.
“Afraid? No!” He throws his head back and guffaws. “But did I mention I have malaria?” He sighs at her failure to take him seriously. “Well, I’m all out of ideas.”
“I’ll see you at the entrance at six. Oh, and don’t forget to eat beforehand.”
“Of course, because I’ll be ravenous before my date with a giant homicidal needle,” he grumbles as he watches her leave. The students begin filing back into the room, and he tries to hide the smile of pleasure on his face, mixed as it is. Finally the class is his.
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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Okay, my little twittering friends. It’s payback time. They’re not yet all seated when he begins.
“Art,” he announces to the lecture hall, and he hears the sounds of pencils and notepads being extracted from bags, loud zips and buckles, tin pencil cases rattling; all new for the first day. Squeaky-clean and untarnished. Shame the same cannot be said for the students. “The products of human creativity.” He doesn’t stall to allow them time to catch up. In fact, it’s time to have a little fun. His speech speeds up.
“The creation of beautiful or significant things.” He paces as he speaks, still hearing zipping sounds and rattling.
“Sir, could you say that again ple—”
“No,” he interrupts. “Engineering,” he moves on, “the practical application of science to commerce or industry.” Total silence now.
“Creativity and practicality. The fruit of their merger is architecture.”
Faster, Justin, faster!
“Architecture-is-the-transformation-of-ideas-into-a-physical-reality. The-complex-and-caref ully-designed-structureof-something-especially-with-regard-to-a-specif ic-period. To-understand-architecture-we-must-examine-the-relationshipbetween-technology-science-and-society.”
“Sir, can you—”
“No.” But he slows slightly. “We examine how architecture through the centuries has been shaped by society, how it continues to be shaped, but also how it, in turn, shapes society.”
He pauses, looking around at the youthful faces staring up at him, their minds empty vessels waiting to be filled. So much to learn, so little time to do it in, so little passion within them to understand it truly. It is his job to give them passion. To share with them his experiences of travel, his knowledge of all the great masterpieces of centuries ago. He will transport them from the stuffy
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lecture theater of this prestigious Dublin college to the rooms of the Louvre, hear the echoes of their footsteps as he walks them through the cathedral of Saint-Denis, to Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Saint-Pierre-de-Montmartre. They’ll know not only dates and statistics but the smell of Picasso’s paints, the feel of Baroque marble, the sound of the bells of Notre Dame. They’ll experience it all, right here in this classroom. He will bring it to them. They’re staring at you, Justin. Say something.
He clears his throat. “This course will teach you how to analyze works of art and how to understand their historical significance. It will enable you to develop an awareness of the environment while also providing you with a deeper sensitivity to the culture and ideals of other nations. You will cover a broad range: history of painting, sculpture and architecture from Ancient Greece to modern times; early Irish art; the painters of the Italian Renaissance; the great Gothic cathedrals of Europe; the architectural splendors of the Georgian era; and the artistic achievements of the twentieth century.”
He allows a silence to fall.
Are they filled with regret on hearing what lies ahead of them for the next four years of their lives? Or do their hearts beat wildly with excitement as his does, just thinking about all that is to come?
Even after all these years, he still feels the same enthusiasm for the buildings, paintings, and sculptures of the world. His exhilaration often leaves him breathless during lectures; he has to remember to slow down, not to tell them everything at once. Though he wants them to know everything, right now!
He looks again at their faces and has an epiphany. You have them! They’re hanging on your every word, just waiting to hear more. You’ve done it, they’re in your grasp!
Someone farts, and the room explodes with laughter. He sighs, his bubble burst, and continues his talk in a bored tone. “My name is Justin Hitchcock, and in my special guest lec-t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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tures scattered throughout the course, you will study the introduction to European periods and schools such as the Italian Renaissance and French Impressionism. This includes the critical analysis of paintings, the importance of iconography, and the various technical methods used by artists from the Book of Kells to the modern day. There’ll also be an introduction to European architecture. Greek temples to the present day, blah blah blah. Two volunteers to help me hand these out, please.”
And so it was another year. He wasn’t at home in Chicago now; he had chased his ex-wife and daughter to London and was flying back and forth between there and Dublin for his guest lectures. A different country perhaps, but the same class. First week and giddy. Another group displaying an immature lack of understanding of his passions; a deliberate turning of their backs on the possibility—no, not the possibility, the surety—of learning something wonderful and great. It doesn’t matter what you say now, pal; from here on out, the only thing they’ll go home remembering is the fart.
