Covers Cold Open

Well, hello there ladies and gentleman! It has been a minute since I have written, and I am back with new inspiration! I will get into that a little more in a couple of future posts about my inspiration for this as well as my inspiration for this new writing outlet: the teleplay.

This is the beginning of a teleplay that I’m working on as a sitcom pilot for a show tentatively called Covers. The show would deal with the local music scene in a midwestern city. The show would specifically follow the rivalry of two local cover bands after the lead singer of one band is fired to be picked up by another cover band.

This part of the pilot is the cold open. In case anyone is unfamiliar, a cold open is the first scene of a show that appears before you see the opening credits or title sequence of the show. It usually sets up the mood of the episode, and in the case of a pilot it sets up the tone for the show in general.

This is the first draft, without any edits. Pretty much I just regurgitated what was in my head onto the page so that I can refine it later. So if things are spelled out well enough or if some of the dialogue is clunky, I still have yet to refine it. Hopefully it still reflects where the show is going.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to let me know what you think in the comments!

INT. ACE OF SPADES - EVENING

MICK BAKER and TRENT GORE set at the end of a bar sipping pints of beer. RONNIE BUTLER walks up from a stage on their left filled with band equipment.

Ronnie places a set of DRUM STICKS on the bar and sits down on the bar. He holds up a finger and a bartender comes over.

BARTENDER

What ya havin’?

RONNIE

The usual.

BARTENDER

I don’t know what the usual is.

RONNIE

Seriously? We’ve been playing here once or twice a month for the past year, and I’m here a couple of nights a week besides that and I always order the same thing. How do you not know what that is? Everyone knows what that is!

BARTENDER

I just started on Monday.

RONNIE

Oh. I guess I haven’t been in here since Saturday, have I?

BARTENDER

I wouldn’t know.

RONNIE

I s’pose. I’ll have a rum and coke.

BARTENDER

What kind of rum d’you want?

RONNIE

I don’t know, whatever they normally give me.

BARTENDER

(Exasperated)

Okay…

Bartender walks away to get Ronnie his drink. Ronnie turns to Mick and Trent.

RONNIE

Is Zak here yet?

MICK

Not since I set up.

TRENT

It’s just like him though. Well, like every lead singer really, to show up after everyone else has set up all the equipment.

MICK

That’s one of the things everyone loves about drummers, y’all gotta be one of the first to set up, and if we’re lucky you’re done early to help the rest of us.

TRENT

Until you start writing songs, then ya gots to go!

RONNIE

Trent, you know all bassists do is follow the bass line I set up for you. And Mick, we gotta fill all the holes you can’t on guitar. So really, we write most of the song, so screw you!

A bar patron walks up to the band members from between the bar and the stage.

BAR PATRON

Hey, I think your lead singer is in the back bar. I’m pretty sure he’s about to get your band kicked out.

Mick, Trent, and Ronnie look at each other and back to the patron.

TRENT

What’s he doing?

BAR PATRON

I suggest you go check it out yourself. He’s putting on quite a show.

The band get up and run left toward the stage.

CUT TO:

INT. BACK BAR ACE OF SPADES - EVENING

The three band members stand in the doorway looking into the room. Looks of horror and amusement mix across their faces.

MICK

Is he f…

TRENT

(Interrupts Mick)

Yeah, he is.

MICK

On the pool table?

TRENT

It would appear so.

RONNIE

That can’t be good for the felt.

Trent and Mick both turn to look at Ronnie incredulously. As the Bartender walks up behind them, they turn their attention back to the action in the back bar.

BARTENDER

He can’t do that here.

MICK

I’m pretty sure he can’t do that at most of the bar in the city mate.

The band members and the bartender all tilt their head to the left in unison with a quizzical look on their faces.

Trent

I’m pretty sure you can only get away with that at that little speakeasy on Main Street. They might actually encourage it.

Mick, Ronnie, and the Bartender all look at Ronnie incredulously, think about it, then nod in agreement.

BARTENDER

I’m sorry guys, but we’re going to have to ask your band to leave.

Bartender walks away from the band.

TRENT

(Sarcastically)

Well, I didn’t see that coming.

BARTENDER

(Calling back to the band)

And since you’re not playing tonight, you’ll have to pay for your drinks.

MICK

(Angrily)

Dammit, I did not see that coming!

Trent and Ronnie look at Mick incredulously and shake their heads as they walk away.

The Story Behind "American Idols"

The title for this story doesn’t actually come from American Idol like some readers of the story first thought. My choice for title just comes from the idea that the kids of the story idolize these modern cultural “icons” (yes, I use that word loosely). So the idea just stemmed from the fact that these are idols and they are American. The fact that it came out sounding like that piece of “entertainment” (yes, I use that word loosely) was purely coincidental. It might be time to go through my music to find a song title to name it after.

The idea for this story started with a Halloween costume. Not mine, but Julianne Hough’s. At the time she had showed up at a Halloween party dressed up as Crazy Eyes from Orange is the New Black. The major issue is that Julianne Hough is white and Crazy Eyes is a black character. Naturally, people screamed “Black Face” without actually understanding what true “Black Face” is. Meanwhile it gave me an idea for a story.

The main kernel of the idea was a white kid going to school as a historical black figure. I wanted to play with the perceived offensiveness of this concept, the white kid dressing up as a black character to honor them rather than to denigrate them (which is what true “Black Face” is for, to denigrate). I used depictions of children dressing as modern over the top pop stars to juxtapose the absurdity of their idols with the one that Stephanie chooses.

I will do a revision of this story, most likely giving the teacher more of a reaction to Stephanie’s appearance and to keep the action from venturing too far from the event and the classroom setting.

American Idols, Part 2

“Ok, class,” she said as she stood up from her desk. “It is so exciting to see all of you dressed up in such colorful outfits this morning.” The students took their seats as she spoke. She moved to the podium in the front of the room. “As always I’m so excited to see what you have come up with for your presentations.”

Stephanie gave one more look over her paper before placing it carefully back into her backpack.

“I know normally I’d take roll right now,” Mrs. Meyer continued, “but today I’ll take it as you go through your presentations. So that’s enough from me for now. First, we’ll bring up Stephanie Anderson.”

A shock of nerves ran down Stephanie’s back and settled in her stomach. For a moment she wasn’t sure if she could move from her seat. Finally, she stood up and made her way to the front of the class. As she walked up the row of desks the seated students quieted. She took her spot behind the podium and cleared her throat. She looked out at the silent classroom, the looks on her classmates’ faces not registering in her nervous mind.

“I have a dream,” she began.

Marcus began to sob. “She’s wearing blackface,” he shouted. Stephanie finally saw the faces of her fellow classmates. The faces registered shock. Tears trailed down Marcus’ cheeks washing trails in his pale makeup to reveal his dark skin underneath.

Mrs. Meyer stood up and walked to the front of the podium and faced Stephanie. “Stephanie Darla Anderson!” she said. “How dare you come into my classroom wearing blackface. Never have I seen such a thing in my classroom. To the principal’s office, now.”

The corners of Stephanie’s mouth turned down, and her chin dimpled as she walked back to her desk to grab her backpack. She tried to hold in the tears, but it became increasingly difficult as she felt the eyes of the class follow her out of the room.

***

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Anderson, but...” Stephanie could hear Principal Fleury’s voice from his office.

“Tricia,” her mom said. “Please call me Tricia.”

Stephanie sat outside the principal’s office while he spoke to her mom. After she had left class, the principal had made her go to the bathroom and wash the makeup off her face so she wouldn’t look so offensive. Her face and neck mostly revealed her light complexion now, but with streaks of dark brown from the makeup she couldn’t clean off. A steady stream of light tears fell from her eyes since she left Mrs. Meyer’s class.

“I’m sorry, Tricia, but we can’t allow something as offensive as blackface in this school. White children should not dress up with brown makeup to darken their skin color, it’s just not right.”

“I understand,” Tricia said.

“We have a zero tolerance policy on this sort of violation. I have no other choice but to suspend Stephanie for three days.”

“Three days?”

“My hands are tied, Tricia.”

“Well, thank you for letting me know.” Tricia came out of the principal’s office and knelt in front of Stephanie and smiled at her. Stephanie didn’t look at her. Tricia pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped the tears from Stephanie’s cheeks. “Come on kiddo, let’s get you home.”

Tricia held out her hand and Stephanie took it without looking. They walked out of the school and back to the car. As Tricia opened the car door for Stephanie to get in, Stephanie grabbed on to Tricia and started crying.

“What did I do wrong, Momma?” she asked.

Tricia knelt down and put her arms around her daughter. “Nothing kiddo, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I thought I could be anything I wanted,” Stephanie said.

“You can. But this is America, honey, it has to be within reason.” 

American Idols, Part 1

            Stephanie Anderson was excited when she walked into Mrs. Meyer’s second grade class on Tuesday morning. It was American Idols day in class; a day to celebrate the people that the class held as heroes. There were some restrictions: your hero had to be someone famous, either a celebrity or a historical figure. This meant that Stephanie couldn’t go as her grandma, which is what she really wanted to do. She had a great idea, though, and she couldn’t wait to show off her hero for the class. They also had to come in dressed as their hero, and they had to give a short presentation.

            That morning, her mom helped her with her costume, which they had picked out over the weekend at the local Goodwill. For her presentation, she would get up in front of the class and give a speech. Not one that she had made up herself, but one that came from her American hero. She knew that she wouldn’t have time to give the entire speech, but she wanted to give enough of the speech so that the class knew who her hero was.

            When she entered the classroom, no one noticed her. The seating arrangement was set up in reverse alphabetical order by last name, so Stephanie was seated toward the rear of the class close to the door. She didn’t really want to be noticed though, not now. She wanted to make her grand entrance at the podium when she went up to give her speech.

            Her main concern now was making sure that no one else had picked the same hero that she had chosen. She scanned the classroom, looking around at the students that had arrived in class before she had. There was a buzz of excitement around the room as the students showed off their costumes to each other. It looked like almost everyone had already arrived in class, and they were dressed in a colorful array of costumes.

            Brenda Mackey wore a one piece with a winking teddy bear on the front. The teddy bear had its tongue sticking out, and the ears were where Brenda’s breasts would be if she were old enough to have any. On her hand, she had a foam finger that she kept making suggestive motions with that she had seen on TV, motions that she wasn’t quite old enough to discern what they meant. She was grinding on her brother Tyson who was dressed in a black and white striped suit. They were showing Marcus Redford the dance moves they had been practicing for their joint presentation.

            Marcus leaned against a desk as he watched Tyson and Brenda dance, nodding his head as if listening to music they were performing. For his idol, Marcus had to have his face done up with make-up to lighten his black complexion. He wore a blond Halloween wig that flowed past his shoulders, and a dress made out of pink and red fabric sown together to look like slabs of meat. As Tyson and Brenda finished their dance, Marcus started singing, “I’m on the right track, baby/ I was born this way.”

            Stephanie saw Jeremy Spencer across the room. He had his hair styled into a modified pompadour with a considerable amount of gel and hair products. His skin was covered in an uneven and dark fake tanning spray. He carried around a Fisher Price Turntable that he sat on a desk and acted like he was a DJ in a nightclub getting the attention of some of the other students. Jeremy started pumping his fist in the air, shouting, “GTL! GTL! GTL!”

Mrs. Meyer laughed at the display from her desk at the front of the classroom and asked Jeremy, “What does GTL stand for?”

“Gym Tan Laundry,” Jeremy said in an unconvincing Jersey accent. “Maybe you should try it out, Mrs. M.” The teacher laughed as the rest of the class went back to cheering him on.

There were a lot of different costumes among the class, and some were repeated, but no one seemed to have thought of wearing the same costume as Stephanie. While everyone was showing off their costumes, she opened up her backpack and pulled out a piece of paper. On the paper was her speech. She didn’t want to forget it and make her hero look bad, so she studied until Mrs. Meyer called the class to order.

The Story Behind "All the Money in the World"

Surprise, surprise! Another short story with a song title; this one comes courtesy of Black Lab’s track “All the Money in the World”.

I wrote this story while working in a Pleasures of Satire class. At the time I was working on various ideas for a concept. Among them was the idea of a play where a man was creating an atomic bomb in his basement because the 2^nd amendment. I was also annoyed by how people walk the halls of building on campus, so I considered writing a “Campus Walking License Manual” that would be a licensing program for incoming freshman that they would have to complete prior to walking on campus. I will probably return to the former idea, the latter doesn’t hold much interest for me at this point though.

A news story and a debate broke my final concept of the story. The day I came up with the concept I was having a debate about how McDonald’s is costing taxpayers about $1.2 billion a year due to low wages for employees. That same day the story broke about how Wal-Mart management was asking employees to donate food and items to other less fortunate employees who weren’t getting paid enough to provide their families for the holidays.

I will probably do a few revisions to this piece, but mostly I’m pretty happy with it.

All the Money in the World, Part 2

            “Hello,” the voice on the other end of the call said.

            “Jim, you old coot,” Charles said, “how you doin’?” Charles and Jim grew up in Virginia together. While in the business world Charles maintained a professional manner, when talking to the good old boys from home he lapsed into the parlance of his youth.

            “I’m in recess, so I’d say I’m doin’ mighty fine,” Jim said.

            “Workin’ on your golf swing.”

            “Five below par, wouldn’t you know.”

            “Yeah, we’ll see about that next time you’re near the city. By the way, thanks for pushing that tax cut through. Thanks to that cut I was able to take Loretta to the Burj Khalifa, even after the $500,000 contribution I promised you. She’s been wanting to go there ever since she saw a picture of Tom Cruise sitting on it.”

            “Now, Charlie, you know those cuts are meant to increase productivity and work force for corporations and businesses.”

            Charles sat at his desk motionless, then he burst into laughter. Jim soon followed. “You almost had me there, Jim.”

            “I thought you had a heart attack there for a minute.”

            Tears streamed down Charles’ face, he took a handkerchief from his trousers’ pocket and wiped away the tears. The laughter between them slowly died down. “Hey, Jim, I need a favor.”

            “What can I do ya for?”

            “You still oversee that food stamp committee in Congress?”

            “The House Agriculture Subcommittee on Department Operations, Oversight and Nutrition? Yeah, why?”

            “I just found out that most of our employees can’t afford our food, and...”

            “You thinkin’ about giving them raises.”

            “Enough joking around, Jim, I’ve got business to discuss.”

            “Sorry, go on.”

            “Well, I know right now food stamps aren’t allowed to be used for fast food.”

            “Across most of the country, there are a couple states that allow it.”

            “And that ain’t enough for me. Profits are up this year, but if the employees could buy our food I know we could get them higher.”

            “That’s going to be a hard one to push through Charles.”

            “My bonus is riding on it. I’ll tell you what, you push this through for me, and I’ll promise you a $1.5 million contribution.”

            “That big a deal, huh?”

            “Let’s just say, if this works out, even after that contribution I could buy Devin this custom Lamborghini Murciélago I saw while I was in Dubai for his thirteenth birthday.”

            “Nice gift. For that contribution, though, I’ll move heaven and earth to get that passed for you.”

            “Thanks Jim, it means a lot.”

            “Hey Charlie?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Where’s Devin gonna drive that thing at thirteen?”

            “I bought a racetrack last month. He doesn’t know it yet, figured I’d surprise him with the car and track.”

            “Lucky kid, kind of wish you were my dad.”

            “Get that thing passed and I’ll see what I can do.”

            “Alright Charlie, I’ll talk at ya later.”

            Charles hung up the phone and shook his head. He wore a big smile on his face. He picked up the budget and looked it over again before pushing the intercom.

            “Ms. Terrien, can you come in here again please.”

            The glass door to Charles’ office opened, and Stephanie walked back into the room with her yellow legal pad.

            “I think I have a way we can help our employees have a better holiday this season.”

            “Yes sir.”

            “Write this down, please.”

            Stephanie sat down across from Charles and readied her legal pad. “I’m ready sir.”

            “At the next managers’ meeting, which I believe is next week...”

            “Next Saturday,” she said.

            “Yes,” he said. “I want all of the managers to set up some kind of giving tree, nothing too ornate or expensive. Come up with some wording to communicate that this giving tree will be for employees to give to other needy employees to help them have a better holiday season.”

            Stephanie had stopped writing before Charles finished, and she stared at him.

            “Is there something wrong Ms. Terrien?” he asked.

            She shook her head and turned her attention back to the legal pad. “No sir. So the employees should offer to donate supplies to the other employees.”

            “Exactly, this should help foster a sense of team spirit among the franchise employees.”

            “They will definitely be united in a common cause, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you at this moment?”

            “That will be all, Stephanie.” He smiled at her.

            She stood up and began to leave the room.

            “Ms. Terrien?”

            She turned around at the door.

            “How much do you make?”

            A puzzled look came across her face. “Currently, I am salaried at $60,000 annually. May I ask why, sir?”

            “Oh, no reason,” he said turning his attention back to the budget on the desk. “Thank you Stephanie.”

            Stephanie left the room, and the door closed behind her.

            “We may have to find some way to rectify that,” Charles said to himself.

All the Money in the World, Part 1

            Charles Hoffelt sat at his desk looking over McBurger’s financials for the quarter. His office sat on the 78^th floor at the northeast corner of the Empire State Building and often he liked to take in the bird’s eye view of the city at four in the afternoon, but today he was concerned by what he felt were the company’s rising labor costs. Business was good, and profits were steadily increasing, but his end of the year bonus couldn’t handle the weight of rising labor costs.

            He pushed a button on the black intercom that sat on his desk. “Ms. Terrien,” he said, “can you come in here please?”

            The etched glass door to the office opened and a blond woman in her late twenties dressed in a conservative pants suit, carrying a yellow legal pad, walked in. “Yes, Mr. Hoffelt?” she asked.

            “How much do you think I make a year, Stephanie?” Charles asked her.

            “I don’t think, sir,” Stephanie said. “I’m your assistant, it’s part of my job to know how much you make.”

            “How much do I make then?”

            “You make $8.75 million annually before bonuses, sir.”

            “And how much do our employees make?”

            “The annual wage of our employees varies, sir, but entry level wage at the franchise level is $7.25 an hour. Most entry level employees work anywhere from twenty to thirty hours a week. So on the high end our entry level workers make approximately $11,310 an hour.”

            “That much?” he asked. He looked at her for the first time since she entered the office. He laid the budget down on the desk. “I thought it was less than that.”

            “It was, but there was a minimum wage increase recently. Despite the increase, many of our employees find that the wage leaves them in poverty.”

            “There are government programs to assist with that, though, aren’t there?”

            “Yes sir, but the employees feel that even after government assistance they are far below the poverty line.” Stephanie sat down in a chair across the desk from Charles. “Recent company-wide surveys indicate that many of our employees are particularly worried about the coming holiday season. They’re struggling to provide for their families as it is, let alone handling the traditional holiday requirements.”

            Charles leaned back in his chair. “Stephanie, what is our motto here at McBurger?”

            “Better, faster, cheaper.”

            “If we raise employee wages, how would we be able to keep that motto?”

            “I don’t have the answer to that, sir, but at the current wages our employees can’t even afford to buy our own food.”

            Charles leaned forward. “Our employees aren’t buying our food?”

            “They can’t afford it, sir.”

            “That’s a travesty.” He stood up and turned to the window. “Profits are up, but profits obviously aren’t where they could be.” He stroked his forehead then ran his hand through his hair. “Stephanie, can you get Jim on the line for me?”

            “Jim?”

            “Oh I forgot, sorry,” he said, turning around, “you don’t know Jim. Representative Jim Eldridge.”

            “The Congressman?”

            “Yes, we’re old golfing buddies. I think he can help us out here.” Charles sat back down at his desk. “If you look through my directory you should find several different numbers for him. Use his cell phone. Congress is in recess and I doubt he’ll be in his office today.”

            “Yes sir.” Stephanie stood up from her chair and exited the room.

            Charles picked up the budget and looked over it again, shaking his head. It was only a few minutes before the phone rang. He picked it up.

The Story Behind "Running to Stand Still"

Here’s yet another short story with a title based on a song. In this case it’s U2’s “Running to Stand Still”.

This story was inspired by a stop at a stop sign. As I drove home from class one day a green Dodge truck stopped in front of me for an inordinate amount of time. The windows were tinted so I couldn’t see the driver and my first impulse was that they were on the phone getting directions to their next destination. Being the creative type, however, the next thing to pop into my head was that the driver might be having a heart attack. I didn’t take this impulse very seriously, and when they finally decided to move I decided to craft a story around that concept.

For the first half of the story, I took a couple items from school life for inspiration. Professor Parker was inspired by a professor I had for a couple of classes who studied in England and is also a Jesuit priest. He’s a great professor, and students who get past the massive amount of material he assigns thoroughly enjoy his class. (Over one semester we read The Portrait of a Lady, Madame Bovary, Wurthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Persuasion, and Pride and Prejudice all of which we found we had to purchase after our first day of class since the professor doesn’t use technology.) He can be tough though if you don’t put in the effort.

The policy about waiting 24 hours to discuss a grade on a paper didn’t come from that professor though, it actually came from a Public Speaking class. Our instructor, a graduate student who was student teaching to work her way through grad school, had that requirement to allow students to think about the grade and come up with a reasonable argument for why they should receive a better grade. On occasion a reasonable argument would receive a better grade.

The student characters weren’t based on anyone in particular. I included a slight religious joke in the character of Saul/Paul though. If you don’t know the story, the apostle Paul was originally a Roman named Saul until he was blinded on the road to Damascus leading to his conversion to Christianity and his name change to Paul.

I do intend to revise this one, although I’m not sure if I want to extend the story and give more reason for Jenny Hollander’s brief appearance, or if I want to keep it short and omit her. I also want to give Oliver more conflict at the end of the story as well. If you have other suggestions I’d be more than happy to hear them!

Running to Stand Still, Part 2

            Oliver drove his blue ‘13 Ford F-150 down Menlo Boulevard. The speed limit was 25 MPH but he was going 40 until he came up to a green ’98 Dodge that was doing 20 at the corner of Prospect.

He punched his steering wheel. “Come on,” he shouted. “I ain’t getting any younger back here.”

The Dodge stopped at a stop sign at the Maryland intersection. It didn’t move.

Oliver punched his horn twice. “What the hell?” He hit the horn and held it for five more seconds. He considered driving around the Dodge, but a raised median prevented him. He hit the horn one more time, but when there was no movement he got out of his truck and walked up to the Dodge.

The tinting on the window of the Dodge made it nearly impossible to see into the truck, but there was a figure that seemed to be shuddering behind the tint. Oliver slowly reached up and pulled the latch on the truck door.

When the door opened, there was an old lady in her 70’s in the driver seat; her left hand on the steering wheel and her right armed gripping a man of the same age in the passenger seat. Her gray bangs covered her eyes, matted to her cheeks by the tears that dripped off her chin on to her blouse.

“Je ne,” she said. “Je ne suis...” She was stuttering through heavy sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said, “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know,” she said. She spoke with a thick French accent. She burst into sobs. “He’s dead.”

“Do you have a...”

“The clinic...” She was almost inaudible through the sobs. “Chest pains.”

“Do you have a phone?” Oliver asked.

She shook her head.

Oliver started to move away. The woman grabbed his arm with her left hand.

“I’ll be right back, I promise.”

She released her grip, but didn’t move her hand. Slowly Oliver moved away from her hand. He ran back to his truck and pulled his cell phone from the passenger side of his Ford. He dialed 911. The operator came on the line. Before they could finish their opening sentence Oliver said, “I think someone’s had a heart attack, we’re at the corner of Maryland and Menlo.” Without turning off his phone, he threw it back into the truck and ran back to the Dodge. The woman was still sobbing. Oliver placed his hand on her shoulder and knelt down next to the truck. “Help is on the way,” he told her.

“Quarante-sept ans...” She shook her head through sobs. “Forty-seven years we have been together. I don’t know how to be alone.”

Oliver rubbed her shoulder as he looked down at the road beneath him.

“Don’t leave me, please,” she said.

Oliver looked up at her. “I promise I won’t leave you. You’re not alone.” The woman placed her right hand on the hand that rubbed her shoulder as the sound of sirens came up Maryland Avenue.

Running to Stand Still, Part 1

            Oliver sat in the back of the classroom staring at the paper Professor Parker had just passed back to him. It was Oliver’s last class of the day. Scrawled over the paper’s title, “Oedipus Wrecked” was a large red capital D. Oliver’s hand tightened and the paper crumpled with it. The rustle of multiple backpacks zipping closed and being picked up by their owners filled the room as students started making their way out of the room. Oliver stared at Professor Parker. Professor Parker sat at the front of the class behind a gray table. Behind him, his cane rested against the wall underneath the classroom white boards. He was reviewing his attendance book through a pair of small glasses that were pinched to the tip of his nose.

            Oliver stood up and made his way down the row of desks through the departing students to Professor Parker’s table. Professor Parker looked up at Oliver. Oliver’s jaw clenched and his cheeks bulged. He unclenched his jaw and his face went back to normal. Professor Parker removed his glasses and placed the on the table. He leaned back in his chair, scratching his withered neck through his turtleneck sweater.

            “How can I help you, Mr. Krosky?” Professor Parker asked.

            “I want to talk to you about my paper,” Oliver said.

            “As I stated at the beginning of class, Mr. Krosky, you may discuss your grade after you have had twenty four hours to review your paper. I will not discuss it a moment sooner.”

            Oliver clenched his fist, the paper crinkled. “But, sir...”

            “There are no buts, Mr. Krosky.” Professor Parker leaned forward and started reviewing his attendance book again. “The rules apply to everyone. You are not exempt; as I’ve already informed you concerning the attendance policy.”

            Oliver clenched his teeth again.

            “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Krosky?”

            Oliver didn’t answer. He turned around, walked back to his desk, and picked up his backpack. He quickly threw the wrinkled paper into his bag, zipped it up and walked out of the classroom. As he rounded a corner outside the classroom he nearly ran into a soda machine. Oliver balled up his fist and punched it three times.

            “Whoa,” a guy across the hall called out to him. Oliver turned around, one of his classmates walked up to him.

            “Oh, hey,” Oliver said. “Ah, I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

            “Saul,” he said, “but most people call me Paul. You alright, man.”

            “Parker gave me a goddamn D on the paper man. What’d you get?”

            “I got a B man.”

            “How’d you pull that off?” Oliver asked.

            “Earned it, I guess.” Saul took a pack of gum out of his pocket. He offered Oliver a piece, but Oliver declined. After shoving a stick of gum in his mouth, “I’d say I worked on that shit for at least a week. How ‘bout you?”

            “I finished it the morning it was due.”

            “Yeah?” The corners of Saul’s mouth twitched. “When did you start it?”

            “I think Parker’s got something against my dad man.”

            “Oh really?” Saul smiled. “They go to school together?”

            “Fuck you, man. My dad’s not old as sin.” Oliver turned toward the door at the end of the hall and started walking.

            “So what are you going to do about it then?” Saul called after him.

            Oliver left the building. As he walked across campus, he kept balling up his fists and muttering under his breath. “I’ll talk to the goddamn department chair, that’s what I’ll do.” “He can’t treat me like this, just ain’t right.” He didn’t look up when Jenny Hollander from his Survey of Astronomy class called out to him. He didn’t see her strawberry blond hair wave in the breeze, or notice how the wind hiked up her short skirt to reveal her unblemished thighs. As he kept walking, so did she, shrugging off his ignorance.