(COLLEGE FACULTY PARTY: ANY WAY THE WIND BLOWS)
I've been in Miami for almost eleven years. How did I get here? A head hunter poached me from an Ivy League college, promising me tenure and a salary bump. I was sick of the cold winters on the east coast, and living and working in Miami sounded like a good systemization.
My wife, Mary Kay, whom I call MK, liked the idea. With my new salary, she could become the full-time homemaker she wanted. Recently she's gotten into baking her own bread and growing mushrooms. The place smells like a French bakery.
A billionaire, Avro Bullier, whose father bought up huge tracts of swamp land in the 1950s, funds Bullier College. After draining the swamps, the family built numerous housing developments like Del Webb in California. Of course, if you dig down five feet at any of these sites, you'll hit salt water.
The employees here at Bullier College and the teaching staff are considered one big happy family. The school directors expect to achieve university accreditation within this decade. A Korean architect of great reputation, A.I. Ko, designed the campus. We have a building for each major discipline and an ultra-modern digital library with internet access to the greatest libraries in the world. We boast a carefully chosen conservative student body that represents the racial fabric of Southern Florida.
After signing my employment contract, I bought a small home on Okeechobee Road near the college. It was all I could afford, and the college guaranteed my mortgage plus a large cash offset. One of my colleagues, Matt Cavanaugh, who teaches philosophy, comes from a wealthy family of cattle ranchers. Matt recently
purchased a fancy townhouse a bit further away and closer to the water. Matt is sailboat affectionate.
Although he has invited me on numerous sailing trips, I have put him off. My last trip on a large fishing boat a few years ago got me as sick as hell. That surprised me; when I was a kid, I'd had plenty of trips on sailboats and cabin cruisers and was never seasick. Maybe the Korean fisherman on board who smoked nonstop and the diesel smell emanating from the old boat engine is what did me in.
Whatever the cause, I've become leery of boat trips. Recently, a charter boat caught fire, supposedly the result of recharging lithium batteries. While the guests slept, they passed through the pearly gates. Thirty-three people died because the fire blocked the passenger emergency exit route.
You can see why I wasn't too excited about joining Matt Cavenough and the guys on a boating day trip but planned to attend the first faculty meeting of the year, which would accomplish the same purpose. Matt Cavanaugh was the president of the college, and I was the head of the Anthropology/Sociology Department. When Matt sent me an invitation to a meet and greet in the Student Center Lounge, I could not refuse.
The student center is a huge building with a cafeteria, a music center, a movie theater, a stage that can double as a student auditorium for the acting school, a game center with ten brand new Brunswick pool tables in the right wing, and six bowling lanes in the west wing.
My wife, Mary Kay, was excited to attend this faculty party. I knew Bill Ritter, a long-time English Professor, would most definitely be in attendance. He would not miss the chance to flirt with Mary Kay. On more than one occasion, he'd said how much he loved talking to her, and I didn't quite trust him around her. Mary was not the most innocent of women, but she was a sucker for a sob story and easily manipulated. I knew Bill had a file cabinet full of the same.
"Come on," said Mary when I told her I was thinking of skipping the event, hoping that she might decide not to attend,
"You'll socialize and have a good time."
"I can say I had papers to grade."
"That's a lame excuse," said MK, "You don't want to offend Cavanaugh," adding,
"You're coming,"
"You could go by yourself," I suggested.
"I can't go alone. People will think there is something going on in our marriage, and rumors in a small college can get out of hand."
Knowing you can't argue with a wife, I showered and dressed casually in white linen pants and a colorful shirt with a swordfish jumping out of the water.
"You look very nice," said MK.
MK was wearing a short multi-colored pleated skirt, high red heels she'd bought at Neiman Marcus, and a purple blouse that strained to contain her large breasts.
"You look beautiful," I said, patting her on the ass as we left.
I was prepared for a boring Saturday night at President Cavenoughs' faculty party. A room had been reserved at the student center that opened out onto a grassy space behind the complex. I left the car with a vale, and we walked in. With her red high heels, MK was a little taller than me.
At first glance, It looked like a garden party. Food and drinks, catered by the Buccaneer Restaurant, were set up on a long table just inside the room. There were a few bottles of alcohol, an ice tub with beer, and some of the teaching staff had brought bottles of champagne. I put a bottle of domestic Chablis on the table, and we strolled out onto the grass.
It surprised me that it looked like the adult parties my parents used to throw when I was just a child. I'd walk into the throng holding my mother's hand, get introduced to all the adults, and then off to bed with a chocolate cookie. Tonight I wouldn't be able to get away as quickly. I knew most of the staff, but there were a number of young newcomers I did not know and some students doubling as waiters. I resolved to speak with as many faculty members as possible.
Before leaving, I had eaten a full dinner and fortified myself with a half bottle of French wine. I didn't know there would be so much food. Besides the drinks, there were mini sandwiches on buns, an entire sliced roast ham with a carving knife, and salads and tropical fruits in bowls. I filled a paper cup halfway with some fresh champagne; later, I saw people holding tall champagne glasses, which was a better solution, but since I'd already poured the champagne, I stayed with the plastic cup.
I seated myself outside with Mary Kay, who stopped to talk to Cynthia Foster, a stunning black woman who had joined the faculty just this year. I think she was a member of the economics department. When Cynthia dropped her champagne glass, and it did not break, I realized the glasses were plastic.
Several men had moved off to a corner of the grassy area and were lighting cigarettes. I walked over and introduced myself. I assumed the men were the husbands of the staff whom I had not met. It turned out they were all acting teachers from the drama department, concerned about an upcoming writer's strike in Hollywood.
"Those writers have a bankroll of millions and can hold out for a year if they want to." Said one fellow. His gray hair and unfamiliar face made me wonder if I'd ever seen him on the stage or in a film and, if ever, he would get famous.
I introduced myself,
"If I knew you guys were smokers, I'd have brought my cigar. I keep one in the car."
"I can go get it for you," offered one of the younger guys that I recognized as a grad student."
"Thanks, but the wife will give me a divorce if she smells the cigar smoke on me."
A good-looking, voluptuous tall woman, quite attractive, probably about thirty-five, was wearing a low-cut flower print dress that reminded me of a Pucci design. She wandered over to us and stopped next to me. I noticed she was revealing a good amount of cleavage when she surreptitiously pulled out a small marijuana pipe, small enough to hide in her hand, and lit it with a yellow plastic Bic lighter. She took a long deep drag and extended the pipe toward me, offering me the chance to puff.
I demurred, saying, "No thanks, I'm into heroin."
That got a good laugh.
When she walked away, I asked the grad student who she was. He said she was teaching the standard Intro Anthropology course that was required as a part of the curriculum.
