The Professor Takes Supper

"The Professor Takes Supper"

By

R. M. Walters

The sun burned through the window from the west, crawled steadily across the half-dark room like a burglar's torch stealing along a wall, and splashed hotly against his face. He opened his eyes as he felt the heat, squinted, and defensively turned his head into the shadows. Confused, he stared numbly at the black wall under the window, He had been dozing a lot lately, and he wondered why -- maybe for escape.
For a moment, he rubbed at the warm perspiration, which had collected in his grey stubbly beard, and liked the way the moisture felt against his dry, stiff fingers. Then he glanced out the window at the wrought iron railing, which lent a curtain enclosed privacy to his tiny apartment, and studied the truncated edge of a graying sky over a section of crumbling sidewalk. "These late autumn evenings," he mused out-loud, "they're always so prolonged."
He grunted to his feet and stood suddenly still with a grimace as his legs twinged with the malignant fire of rheumatic pains. Then, stiffly, like a man shuffling across a muddy road, he made his way to the sink in the corner, filled a small saucepan with cold water -- there was no hot water -- turned, and placed the saucepan on the table to his right. He pulled back a chair and sat down.
For a time he surveyed his apartment. It had an odor -- a kind of livable stench -- but damp things usually did. The bed was unmade, the floor needed sweeping, cobwebs hun against the dingy walls, but, at least, there were no dishes to be washed; he hadn't dirtied any. It would be nice, he thought, to have a maid like in the old days, and his mind, drifting like it often did these days, began to wander off to kindlier times.
His body brought him back to the moment. His fingers locked at the joints as the agony of his rheumatic illness shot through his arms and hands. He spent several futile seconds pulling at the hands and massaging the arms, vainly wishing that he could draw a tub of hot water to soak them in. But the bathtub was only a decoration; it didn't work, and the manager wouldn't fix it; he had rented the apartment as is. If the Professor were a swearing man he would cuss about that -- vigorously. The pain dulled somewhat, and he was able to concentrate on the chore at hand.
He flipped the switch on the electric hot-plate, watched the black coil turn slowly red, then put the saucepan on to heat. He reached across the table for a box of tea-bags. It was empty. He frowned disgustedly, shrugged resignedly, pulled his breakfast teacup toward him -- it was made of paper -- removed a soggy tea-bag from that, broke it open, and duped to contents into the saucepan to steep.
Soon the hot-plate hissed and cracked, and a pungent odor of left-over grease smoked-up to permeate the room. It made him hungry. He reached for the peanut butter jar. It was also empty -- not even enough left on the sides to scrape out with his fingers. He exclaimed, "Oh, Frumpity!" and shoved the jar away.
He ran a hand into the cracker box, pulled out a wad of waxed paper, and carefully un-crinkled it. There was but one cracker left, and a dead cockroach was interred mid-center of it. He scowled at the cockroach, brushed it off with a sluggish wave of his hand, and took a tentative nibble, anyway. It didn't taste badly.
As he nibbled, he stared at the calendar hanging in the dark west shadows under the window. Seven more days until his pension check arrived. A man could starve to death in seven days, he reasoned; that is if he didn't do something about it. He glanced at the shelf just to the right of the window and located what was left of his library. Of the four books there, his attention was caught by his last valuable possession -- a first edition of Mark Twain's "The Prince And The Pauper." He suffered an excruciating splurge of temptation. "No," He shook his head, he won't give that up yet. He will save that for a real emergency.
He poured his tea into the soggy paper cup. It was not much more than colored hot water, but felt good going down. He sipped and pondered about how to raise some cash. Then, impulsively, he reached for a deck of cards and contemplated that possibility for a moment. No! That's out, too. Mrs. Cobb would also be broke until the first of the month, her pension check was even less than his. Besides, she was still brooding about the seven dollars he had taken from her last Sunday. How that woman hated to pay her debts, he thought with some disdain. No...Bridge was definitely out.
He glowered at the cards for a while and finally shoved them back by the empty cracker box. He looked west through the window again, as though the endless, depth-less twilight sky with the crumbling concrete horizon would hold the solution to his problem. If it did it showed no sign. There are no miracles for proud people these days, he sighed. Then reaching a decision, he exclaimed out-loud, "Oh, Frumpity! I guess it's down to Aristotle's." He rinsed down the rest of his cracker with the weak tea and struggled to his feet.
He walked to the bed, plucked his brown tweed jacket from the bedpost, and slipped it on. It was now baggy and loose, but that was because he was not as heavy as he used to be. At least the pockets are big," he muttered with a grunt as he settled the coat against his bony shoulders with a series of nervous shrugs, "that's an advantage newer clothes don't have."
His next stop was the shelf in the west corner of the apartment. He reached upward and pulled his plastic cigarette case down, making sure that it still contained the empty foil wrappings of a cigarette package, and fastidiously put the case into the breast pocket of his jacket. Then he took a worn, black leather briefcase from the other end of the shelf, un-zipped it, checked the contents -- the old newspapers were still there -- then eased the zipper shut, for it was fraying badly at the seams. "You've about seen your last days too, old friend," he spoke in a soft whisper, "but you've still got a lot of service in you yet." He tucked the notebook under his arm and left the apartment.
He paused at eye level three-quarters of the way up the steps and looked both directions, right and left, on the street -- his actions were much like a man accustomed to ducking bill collectors. Satisfied, he plodded across the street and into the alley which led to Aristotle's seven block's away.
The sun was now a huge red ball in his face, reaching over the rooftops with hardly enough force to make him squint. There was something sad about it; a twilight somnambulism, perhaps, which was depressing. The air had a cold bite to it, but still hung thick and obnoxious in the narrow alleyway. The persistent drone of flies, busy at the garbage cans, offset the piercing dull cacophony of the pigeons on the fire escapes. The stench of the decaying garbage surrounded him like a parasitic gas, but did not dampen his appetite. The stacato-like scurrying of rats in the trash bins made a kind of nervous oratory which bothered him tremendously; his skin crawled with revulsion. His voice partially tinted with bravado, he whispered outloud, "Where an old man will walk just to save a few steps. But, then, he sometimes has to sacrifice a little pride to progress."
As soon as he stepped through the door of Aristotle's he felt a growl roar through his stomach. It seemed loud enough to be embarrassing. The taunting smell of stale beer only sharpened his hunger.
Joe, the owner-bartender, stood with his fat belly resting against the bar. He was feeding Craver, his pet terrier. He looked up with a scoul, as though bothered by the sudden interruption, but the scowl quickly truned into a grin. "Hi, ya, Professor!" he said spontaneously. Haven't seen ya around for a while. Been working on your book, huh? Ya oughtn't to stay away so long. Wait'll I get this crap out of the can for Craver here, and I'll be right with ya."
The Professor looked straight at the dogfood on the saucer and started to lick his lips, but caught himself in time. The he flinched with contemmp at the slobbering sound of Craver gulping the food wolfishly. He stepped back a few paces in a futile effort to dull the sound. He said, "Take your time, Joe, take your time. I'm in no hurry."
"Ain't dogs something," Joe said, having trouble controlling the shiny spoon in his pudgy hand, as he chiseled loudly at the bottom of the can for the last morsel of dogfood. "They ain't got a bad life at all."
"And they don't have to worry about first-of-the-month pension checks, either," the Professor said without changing his expression.
"Yeh, Ain't they lucky," Joe laughed, tossing the empty can under the bar. "Well, pull-up a stool and make yourself comfortable. What'll ya have? The usual?"
"Nothing right now, Joe. I'll just go on back to a table and catch my breath. Then I'll decide."
"Aw, come on," Joe chided, belching with great force. "Have a beer on me while you're deciding. It'll make ya feel good."
"If you insist," the Professor answered with proper jumility, while surveying the layout of the tables with his back partially turned to Joe.
"Go a head and go on back," Joe said, grabbing a glass from under the bar and shoving it under the tap. "I'll bring it to ye."
The trip had been exhausting. He now felt somewhat nervous and shaky and perhaps a liffle faint. He made it to the table with all the finesse of an old man maneuvering a windy corner on a pair of grutches. It felt good to sit down.
"Aw, why'd ya pick this table, Professor?" Joe asked in a You'll have to excuse the way the house looks tone of voice. "It's the dirtiest one in the joint." He slammed the beer down, picked up the ashtray, brushed some of the ashes away with the edge of his hand, and started back to the bar.
"Oh, just leave the ashtray, Joe," the Professor said in a commanding tone of voice, pulling the beer over in front of himself. "You needn't go to all that trouble for me."
"No trouble. I'll just get a clean one and come right back."
"Forget it, Joe! I would rather you left that one. I don't like things too so-so, if you know what I mean. It makes me feel more at home to have a full ashtray in front of me."
"If you say so, Professor," Joe grunted with an indifferent shrug, as his jouls rippled with a grin.
The Professor opend his mough and started to apologize for sounding too demanding, but chaned his mind and sipped at his beer instead.

"Say, ya know," Joe said, ploppingdown across from the Professor, "I ain't never thanked ya yet for telling me to chang the name of this place to Aristotle's West-end. It sure's n the hell made a difference in business. the college kids from over on seventh street have been busting in here every evening like flies through a broken screen, just like ya said the would. Yes sir, they really go fer the name. I never did realize I was losing so much business. I sure do owe ya for that favor."
"No favor, Joe, forget it. I'm always ready to help a friend. I was sure the students would be attracted by the name. They meet it many times in school, and they, like most everybody in this world, have a propensity for clinging to familiar things."
"Well, ya sure called it right," Joe said. "I sure envy people like you. Ya know what I mean, don't ya? Ya get by in life just by using your brains. It ain't like us guys that always have ta take an scratch fer a buck. I wish I'd been born with your kind of brains."
"Any knowledge is certainly worth having, Joe," the Professor said, taking a large swallow of beer and peering over the top rim of the glass. "But sometimes it isn't worth a cold beef sandwich."
"Hah! That's a good one," Joe exclaimed and affectionately laid an overly fat hand on the Professor's bony shoulder. "You're a card, Professor, a real card. Yacan sure say things different. Belt that beer down and let me get-cha another."
The Professor smiled and drained the glass. "You're very charitable, Joe," he said, "Think I'll take you up on that."
Joe took the glass and did the fat ma's shuffle back to the bar. He returned wit the beer and a bowl of cashews. "I remembered that ya really went for these the last time ya was here," he bragged wit a look of pride. "I just got this here batch in today. Try 'em and see what ya think."
The Professor took a swallow of beer first, before picking at the nuts with his fingertips. "Hmm! Say! These are good, Joe," he sighed expressively. "But, surely, you don't give these away to all your customers..." He reached for more.
"Naw," Joe ansered, bending down witha grunt to pick up Craver. He placed the dog against his stomach and fondled his nose. He elaborated, "I put out pretzels for the kids. Thir tasters wouldn't know the difference, anyhow." He let go of Craver's nose and grabbed a handful of nuts. He shoveled them into his mouth. "These I save fer me and you," he managed to articulate between chomps. "Get away from there, ya crazy little mutt," he suddenly half-laughed. "Craver likes 'em too."
"That's very flattering," the Proffessor said without shoing his disjust, as he watched Joe greedily chew the nuts.
"Aw, hell, ya shouldn't feel that way," Joe said, tossing Craver to the floor. "I owe ya plenty fer stim--, stima--, how ya say it? Helping boost my business."
"I wish you'd forget about it, Joe. It wasn't that much of a favor. Besides, I've always found that when one does a kindness to another, the kindness is always returned...one way or another."
"Well, I'll try to forget it," Joe said skeptically. "I'll try. Say! How's the book coming? He blurted suddenly, tapping the Professor's notebook.
The Professor moved the notebook a few inches from Joe's hand. "Very slow, Joe, very slow."
"Ya ought to be getting it done pretty soon."
"Oh, one of these days, I suppose," the Professor sighed, fondling the notebook for a second. "I don't seem to be making much progress lately, but one can't rush a project of this nature, You know."
"Yeh, I guess it takes a lot of time, all right. Personally , I don't think I'd have the patience myself." Suddenly pushing back from the table, he said, "ell, it's about seven o'clock. You're gonna have to excuse me fer a while, Professor. I gotta get things se fer the kids. They'll be coming in any time now."
"By all means," the Professor said, starting to take a swallow of beer but putting the glass down as he saw joe turn away. "Con't let me interfere with your work."
"You just sit there and keep yourself comfortable." Joe called over his shoulder. "if you need anything, just holler."
"I will, joe, I certainly will," the Professor called back.
A customer came in just as Joe got behind the bar, and the Professor, seeing that his attention was on the customer, reached into the bowl of cashews, grabbed a large handful, and slipped them into his left coat pocket. Craver yapped excitedly and jumped onto his lap. He knocked the dog away with a wave of his hand, and Craver responed with a yelp. He loooked toward Joe self-consiously, afraid that the dog had squealed too loudly. Joe hadn't noticed.
He sipped at the beer and ate cashews. They tasted good. He relaxed and grew slightly drowsy.
After a while, a group of college fellows came in. they were chattering noisily and carring books. They slammed the books down on the bar, hopped on stools, and called for beer. Aristotle's West-end suddenly seemed raucously alive with activity.
The proffessor came alert. He looked at the bowl of cashews and all but emtied it as he put another huge handful into his left coat pocket. He reached into his breast pocket, took out his cigarette case, and laid it near the ashtray. then he cried loudly, "Oh, Frumpity!" and feflectivly stared off toward the wall paper on the west wall.
The college kids truned in unisn and looked surprised. He didn't return their look. After a moment, one got off his stool and walked over to the table. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "hut I thought I just heard you say a peculiar thing."
"Huh? What?" the Professor said in a startled manner, looking as though he were just coming awake. "What did you say, youn man?"
"That peculiar exlamation you made a coule of minutes ago." the kid persisted. "What was it?"
"Young man, you have me at a loss," the Professor said with a serious intonation. "I'm afraid I must have been daydreming outloud. I'm not sure what expression you're alluding to." He reached for his cigarette case, removed the lid, and ran a finger into the empty package, making sure the foil rattled crisply. Putting the lid back on with a motion of utter disgust, he said in an absentminded way, "Oh, Frumpity! I'm out of cigarettes."
"That's the expression I mean," the kid cried with enthusiasm. "Here! Have one of mine!" He tossed a pack of cigarettes on the table and pulled up a chair.
"Well," the Professor said without hesitating, "they're not my brand, but beggars can't be choosers." He smiled and put one in his mouth. "Do you have a light?"
The kid struck a match and lit the cigarette. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.
The Professor puffed deeply on the cigarette. It made him dizzy, but it tasted good. He drained the last swallow of beer from his glass and set it down. "Well, I was just leaving but I suppose I could drink one more."
"Hey, Joe! Bring us a beer! the kid called. "About that expression...you've got me curious "
"Oh, yes. Now, what was it?" the Professor said with a frown, toying with the kid's cigarettes.
"Oh, Frumpity!" the kid reminded him, and smiled broadly as though thrilled with the sound of it.
"How ya doing, Professor?" Joe asked, as he put two beers on the table. "Everything all right?" Glancing at the empty nut bowl, he continued, "Those cashews are pretty good, ain't they? I'll bring ya a new bowl."
"Bring some pretzels too, will you, Joe?" the kid asked, handing him a dollar bill.
"Now, what were we discussing, youg man? the Professor muttered, tilting the beer to his lips.
"That expression: 'Oh Frumpity!' "
"Oh, yes." the Professor nodded his head sagaciously. "Now, where did I ever come across it," he went on, looking reflectively off toward the west wall.
"Do you mind if I bring my friend over, sir?" the kid blurted suddenly, getting a little ancey. "He's kinda interested in words, too." "no, not at all," the Professor said.
The kid left the table just as Joe returned wit the cashews and pretzels. Joe put the kids change down and said, "The kid ain't bothering ya, is he, Professor?"
"No, no! Not at all!" the Professor said impatiently.
"Okay," Joe winked and grinned. "Let me know if he does." He walked away.
The Professor moved with a surprising quickness. First, he threw a furtive glace toward the fellows at the bar. Next, he grabbed the kid's change and cigarettesand put them into his right coat pocket. then hurriedly took another handful of cashews and put them into his left coat pocket. He drained his glass, picked up a pretzel, leaned back in his chair and nibbled at it.
"This is Bill," the first kid said, as the two approoached. "I was just telling him about that expression of yours."
"What expression?" the Professor said, fubling with his empty cigarette case again.
The kid turned to Bill and half-whispered, "He's a little forgetful." then he looked at the Professor and said in a louder voice, "You know, 'Oh Frumpity!' "
Bill tossed a pack of cigarettes on the table and said, "Have one of mine!"
The Professor toke one out immediately. "Oh, yes," he said, "I've been trying to remember where I picked that up. Either of you have a light?"
Bill turned and called over his shoulder, "Hey, Joe! Bring us some beer!"
The other kid lit the Professor's cigarette.
"Not so loud, young man, the Professor chastised, exhaling smoke. "He can hear you without shouting."
"How come you wear such a long beard?" Bill asked, retrievieng his cigarettes from the Professor.
The Professor looked at him sharply for a moment: the said without emotion, "It's cheaper than shaving."
"Oh," Bill commented, not meeting the Professor's eyes. "It makes you look like a teacher or something."
"Yeh. It sure does," the other kid chimed in agreement.
"Do you really think so?" the Professor asked, looking away at the west wall. "Well, I'm not much of anything now. I just retired on my pension the first of the year."
"No kidding?" Bill said with sudden interest. "Just taking it easy, huh?"
"Something like that," the Professor said, glancing at Bill again with some dubiosity.
"My uncle George has been getting his for a couple of years," Bill said proudly.
"How come you retired?" the other kid asked.
"I didn't really . I just got too old, and my institution had a mandatory retirement age."
"Well, you still haven't told us where you got that expression," the other kid said, trying to stay with the former subject.
"You're sure lucky, though," Bill said. "A few years ago and you wouldn't have had a pension."
"Yes, I guess you're right," the Professor respoded; the sighed heavily. "I became eligible for the program just seven years before I retired."
The other kid squirmed nervously on his chair. "Give me one of your cigarettes, will you, Bill? I must have left mine at the bar." Turning toward the Professor as Bill handed him a cigarette, he said, "I'd still like to know about that expression."
"Well, to be honest with you, youg man, I'm afrid I'd have to do a little research to trace it."
"How does it go again?" Bill asked.
"Oh, Frupity!" The Professor said with some force.
"It seems like I've heard it somewheres before," the other kid said. "I think it was used by a famous philosopher."
"It might have been," Bill shrugged. "Let's look it up in the library when we go for our nine-thirty class."
"That's a good idea," the other kid agreed. "But we've got timefor one more round of beers before we go. You buying? How about you, Professor? Stand another one?"
"Yes, I believe I could," the Professor said, smiling and looking at the clock on the west wall. "I can see you fellows are excellent students. A library is always a good place to pursue a subject." He took a cigarette from Bill's package.
"Oh, Frompity!" the kid said and laughed.
The Professor laghed too. So did Bill. They signaled for beer and Joe brought it. Bill said, "Oh, Frumpity! It's my turn to pay!"
Joe looked at him curiously. He put the beer down and took a handfull of cashews. He said, "Now, you guys let these nuts alone. They're strictly for the Professor."
"Oh, Frumpity!" the first kid said, and everybody laughed... even Joe.
The two kids gulped their beer, slammed down their glasses, and pushed back from the table.
"Well, we've got to go. See you later," Bill said.
"Yeh!" the other kid said. "See you later."
"Just a minute, gentleman," the Professor said sternly. "It's customary when one receives good service to leave a tip."
"Oh, sure," Bill said, laying a dollar onthe table without smiling.
"Oh, Frumpity," the other kid said with a wide grin, putting seventy cents next to the dollar.
For a while the Professor slumped forward and stared at the clock onthe west wall. He now felt tired and drowsy and a little lonely. In two or three hours, he thought, it won't be seven days until payday, it'll only be six. He looked around. Joe was busy at the fron't of the bar with some new customers.
He glared down at the table top and sighed resignedly. He picked up the dollar seventy cents and put it into his right coat pocket. Bill's cigarettes were still on the table. He put those into his right coat pocket, also. He didn't feel hungry anymore, but he put another handful of the cashews into his left coat pocket...just in case. Then he grunted to his feet, paused a few seconds while the rheumatic pains shot through his legs and subsided, picked up his notebook and cigarette case, and stepped away from the table.
Joe rushed up with a bar rag and started wiping. "Leaving so soon, Professor?"
"Yes, I think I'll head east for a change."
"Say, I couln't help over hearing your conversation with them kids aminute ago. Do you really think they can locate that expression in the library." He winked and grinned knowingly.
"It's possible."
"You're a card, Professor," Joee said, clinking the beer glasses into one pudy hand. "Yes, sir, a real card."
"Goodnight, Joe," The Professor smiled and turned away.
"Night, Professor," Joe called. "Take it easy!"
The Professor stopped with a jurk turned and looked back at Joe sharply. Then his expression mellowed and he said sheepishly, I will, Joe. I will."

-THE END-