Other Men Part III

A professor walks up to a podium and begins to speak as if already in the middle of a conversation.

     "So, as you can imagine, I'm flabbergasted.  I found, in footage from the most exclusive social club in the state, I find proof that Reverend Otieno, the radical left-wing Reverend Doctor Otieno, is invested in a private prison in Louisiana and its sister private immigration detention camp on the Arizona border and, and, wait for it, and its cousin private prison in Central America.  A private prison that has been called the epicenter of drug cartel organization in the Western Hemisphere.  I mean what the fuck?"

The students' laughter filled the lecture hall but was soon overtaken by the grumbling of the professor's peers.  The professor winked at a woman in the front row who did not wink back, but instead sat with a blank look of disbelief.  She was the chair of the Journalism department and had gone to Guatemala on a fact finding mission with Reverend Otieno.  The professor continued after a pause to let the stir die down.

     "And then there's the Senator.  Uno malo, malo Senator.  The first time I met the Senator, I literally shivered.  Here's a man with more blood his hands than a butcher.  And he knows I know this, right.  I've written articles about him.  I've, I've tried to burn this man with sunlight, with a magnifying glass as big as his bastard head with that bastard fedora he always has cocked to the right.  He knows who I am and what I know about him.  And he just stands there smiling at me.  Like, like..." the professor trailed off as he considered what he had done before coming to the lecture hall.

Having just left Reverend Otieno's home after they'd argued over the copy of a contract transferring $5 million worth of shares of Securacorp to the reverend's wife, it was dawning on the professor that he had just lost a great friend.  It was becoming clear to him that he might lose his life.  At 40 years old, he might have just drilled his coffin shut.

      "Like he'd have me dead before the sun came up," the professor finished his thought.  Audible gasps came from different sections of the room.

     "That's enough!" a voice yelled.  "The Senator has sponsored the full-ride scholarships of students in this room.  His father has a building in his name for Christ's sake.  Turn off his microphone!  Now!"

     "You can cut my mic," and his voice stopped as the sound was cut off.  He began to yell.  "But you can't stop the truth!  It's already out there and it's too late.  They ruined my friend.  They ruined me!"  He looked down at the Journalism department chair, who had her hand over her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes.  He walked over to her and plopped himself next to her.  She jumped up at the roughness of his back slamming into the seat.  She could smell the alcohol pouring from his pores.

     "You drunk idiot.  Do you have any idea what you have done?"  She looked forward, furious.  "You selfish, disgusting, jealous troll.  Otieno.  Otieno gave you... gave us, our only chance at doing something meaningful, something other than borderline muckraking.  You did this because..."

     "You fucked him," he spat the words out onto his own shirt.

     "And!?  The only reason I didn't keep fucking him was out of respect for his wife.  You mean nothing to me."  The harshness of her words didn't seem new to him.  It seemed familiar, almost comfortable to have her crushing the parts of his life that he believed even though he knew they weren't true.  She was a journalist.  And the professor, he was a drunk with pen.

     "Well, I don't think his wife respects you much anymore."  The professor pushed himself off the chair and nearly fell over into the space between the front row and the stage.  He collected himself and began to wobble towards the door.  He was completely drunk.

     "You told her?  You coward, you told her!  Why!  Why would you do that?"  She was yelling now, with no regard for the way she looked or sounded.  Many in the crowd, which had been streaming out of the exit doors, stopped to see what was happening.  "Do not come back here, again.  You are done at this university."

She began to walk toward the stage, toward a backstage exit that wouldn't require her going past students.  The professor followed her up on to the stage and reached, clumsily, for her arm.

    "Wait.  J, wait.  Please I'm sorry, J.  I didn't tell her..." He continued to stumble toward her, flailing his hands in an almost comical attempt to stop her.  She power walked backstage and was half way out of the door when it dawned on her what the professor had just said. "I didn't tell her," he said it again.

     "You didn't tell her?"  She asked, unconvinced.

     "I didn't tell her how boring you are in bed and that she didn't have anything to worry about!"  The professor began to laugh hysterically as two security guards climbed the stairs to the stage.  The Journalism department head walked out and didn't look back.  The security guards grabbed the professor by his arms and pulled him to a backstage room and sat him down in front of a large vanity mirror.  The lecture hall was nearly empty.

     "You the Senator's death squad?  You boys are sexy, flabby, but still sexy." He joked, adding a fake lisp to his words in a homophobic attempt at an insult.  Neither guard responded.

The Senator's lawyer walked into the room, holding a document in his hand.

     "Professor, you should read this and sign it and..." The lawyer's hard consonants jarred the professor into a bit of clarity.  "Get him some coffee."  The lawyer ordered the security guards.

     "No.  No coffee. Yerba Mate tea.  In honor of the great reverend Otieno.  Rest in peace, amigo."  The professor reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.  He tipped it and poured it on the floor.  The lawyer jumped back to keep the liquor from splashing on his expensive, tan loafers.

     "The reverend is not dead.  And no one is threatening your life," the lawyer looked at the security guards and huffed out a puff of dismissive laughter.  "You need to read this and sign it."  His patience was getting thin.

     "I'm in no condition to sign anything.  I'm drunk."  The professor put his hand on the top of his head and rubbed at the spot where his hair had begun to thin.  His shoulders sank as he considered how long he had been a nightly drunk and how long he had before his liver failed.

     "Yes, you are drunk.  But you have exactly now and only now to make this right.  This is the only offer you will get."  The lawyer tapped his finger on the document and the loud cracking sound of the paper rang through the professor's temples.  "Sign it.  Shut up, and go away."  The lawyer's patience had run out.

The professor took the bottle of whiskey to his lips and took a long gulp.  He wretched.  The lawyer jumped three steps backward to avoid getting vomited on.  The professor sat doubled over and curled into his own lap as his body began to slip off the chair, almost leaving him on his knees.  His left hand held the tip of the bottle of whiskey as it rested on the floor.  His right hand was in his breast pocket.

The lawyer folded the document in half and put it in his jacket.  "You're gonna kill yourself anyway.  This opportunity would be wasted on you."

     "You're wrong," the professor said without lifting his head up.

     "Wrong about what?" The lawyer asked, raising his voice for the first time in the exchange.

     "The Reverend is dead."  The professor spoke the words into his own lap.

     "What?"  The lawyer asked, stunned.  The professor slowly raised his head and let it fall to the side.

     "I killed him before I came here tonight."

     "You're lying."  The lawyer said with certitude.

     "And I'm gonna kill you and kill myself, and the Senator will go on and on and on and on..."

The security guard put his hand on his weapon, but it was too late.  The professor had already pulled a gun from his jacket and fired into the shoulder of the lawyer by the time the guard could pull his pistol.  The guard fired four times, but not before the professor had fired once more, into the neck of the lawyer, whose was now leaning forward against a counter horrified, watching in the huge vanity mirror as blood curdled up out of his mouth in bubbles and spurts.

The professor lay crumpled against a wall.  With great effort, he wheezed his last words to the security guard.

     "Pour some whiskey in my mouth."

The security guard didn't move.

     "I could have been other men," the professor said and went silent.