Nine Eleven (#Wattys2015)

Chapter 15

Its dim. Not enough lighting. Two men stand inside an office. The office is old, worn, and badly decorated.

"Go ahead then."

"I will," replied Professor Peretz.

"Williams is the worst, where does he get even his crap from?," the Chair of the English department says in response.

"They don't deserve to be heard-they should bring down the whole institution all together. Poetry is dead. Why continue to write it?"

"Well, what they write now-a-days isn't much poetry honestly-it's more like a vague diary entries. Misunderstood-"

"The worst part is the more vague they write the more intelligent they think they sound-ha, I don't understand that crap-honestly they probably don't either. I'm a Professor in English at one the best schools in the New York-damn even the country-and I don't have a clue what the hell these poets are writing about-how is that? If I can't get this crap who can?"

"You're right."

"Are you coming with me?

"No, you go ahead; you know I can't show my face like that. I gave him his job Saul, you think I'd be tolerated as his heckler? I'd get my ass fired!"

"I'll tell you how it goes then."

"Good idea."

"Wait, did I tell you I was writing this in my next book?"

"No you didn't."

"Yeah, I'm adding this poet in my next book who gets shot by a novelist."

"Ha, why would a novelist shoot a poet?"

"It's supposed to set in this civilization where novels are as primitive as poetry-kinda like a role reversal-and poetry comes out like this new-found-religion. The novelist is this Pharisee in the counsel of a novelist Sanhedrin-he shoots the poet for writing so bad. Ha!"

"Well, I guess I'm going to have to read it. I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Thanks!"

Professor Saul Peretz walks out of the office of the Chairman of New York University English Department. He has plans to be a heckler at a poetry reading. A reading by one of his colleagues.

Saul first walks into his own office situated at the end of the hall. It was close by. All the other office doors are shut. The hallway is cold and lit with a mucky artificial light. On his door is taped paper quotes from his favorite novelists-most from Dickens. All in random fonts, bolder, bigger, stranger than the next. The quotes hang unnoticed.

Professor Peretz enters his office and walks behind his desk. He rummages through his belongings scattered atop the cherry wood. It looks like flustered feathers to a dim and pale colored bird.

He picks up his laptop and disconnects its charger. He places both into his black suitcase bag, ready to leave. His ringless fingers place thick stacks of student essays into three separate manila folders, then he places the folders inside the bag as well.

Standing on the wrong side of the desk, the white haired man hurriedly packs his stuff. He combs back his hair, along with the collected beads of sweat dotting his wrinkled forehead, and turns off the small lamplight bent over his workspace. He struts across the room and leaves, turning off a bit of artificial light just before he slams shut the wooden door behind him.

In a hurry.

He takes two steps into the hallway and quickly returns back inside his office. He forgot his coat. He opens the door he'd just shut, stomps into the room, grabs his suit coat from the coat rack, and turns off the lights as he slams the door to leave one more time.

He leaves his office and walks down the hallway. He passes his co-worker's offices which line the hallway all the way to the staircase. They hide behind their doors. Saul struts rattling various short-phrased reminders inside his head. All of which make no sense to anyone except for himself. He arrives at the stairwell, and proceeds downwards where his shiny black boots clap obnoxiously inside the echoing grey. Saul looks at his watch; it reads 8:20AM.

His gun moves with each step down.

He makes it outside the building. The air is fresh against his face. He walks on the grass as he makes his way toward the street. The Tuesday morning has students walking all over the NYU campus. Each student with swollen eyes, eager pacing, all with long florescent thermos strapped tightly to their backpacks. Some chat with each other, some just stay quiet. Saul paces rapidly through the campus. Students pass him in all directions. Students greet him sporadically with enthusiastic "hello's,"and "good morning's." He responds to them all the same; a humble nod of his head, enough to see his white pate and the division of his grey hair combed slick to the side.

He continues to walk across the campus toward the street. The campus is cluttered with birds and their droppings painted on the grey side-walks. Trees breeze in the heavy winds; blades of grass remain placid, as dull whispers meet the steady marching of students climbing their way to their morning lectures. Professor Saul is not going to be giving his lecture today on Dickens. He cancelled.

The professor plans on going to the Poet's House this Tuesday morning-a library of American poetry. Saul's co-worker will reading a piece from his latest poetry book, as well as book-signing. Saul will make it to the event early.

Saul continues through the campus, through the grass and through the sidewalk. The air is fresh. Saul pulls out his silver cell phone from the large pocket snug in is trench-coat. He searches through his contacts as he walks evenly through the campus. He finds the contact named "Sister," and calls. The phone rings, a voice interrupts the noisy cadence:

"Hello?"

"Hey, good morning!"

"You gotta stop calling me so early-"

"I know, it's just that I'm calling because I gotta tell you something."

"Whats up?"

"Guess where I'm going?"

"To hell, its about time."

"No. I'm going to the Poet's House!"

"Again? What's going on, why do you keep going there?"

"You know why?"

"Uh.."

"These guys are idiots, I gotta do something about it."

"How are they hurting you at all?"

"Its just-well, they're hurting the institution. You gotta think bigger than that."

The Professor waves down a taxi by the side of the road.

"Okay."

"They're stuff sucks. I'm telling you, I know-I've read it! They shouldn't be allowed to write. I mean seriously, they think that the more obscure they are, the smarter-"

"I know Saul. You've said this before like a hundred times."

A taxi pulls up, Professor opens the door and steps in. He grunts "Poet's House!"aloud to the cab-driver. They start moving steady on the busy road.

"So what do you think?,"the Professor asks his little sister.

"About what? That poetry stuff, or that fact that your in route to persecuting an innocent bystander-and probably criminal charges?"

"Ha, yeah. Isn't it exhilarating?! Just thought I'd let you know-so you can bail me out of jail you know! Ha, just kidding!"

"Serious Saul, be careful. I love you. Just be careful."

"Okay, I love you too. I gotta go, I'll talk to you later. I'm on my way there right now"

"Okay. Love you too. See ya!"

"Bye."

Saul's snaps his phone shut. He shoves it into his coat pocket and grins as he stares bright-eyed out the car window.

Then there is a roaring.

The cab driver and Saul both turn their heads upwards towards the sound of an airplane racing through the New York City skyline.