Dingo’s Gambit

Summer classes are like opening Christmas gifts.  You hope for diamonds and car keys but inevitably you wind up with a mug with something moderately funny on it, a coin purse, and a few fruitcakes.  Hell, one Christmas as a child, I got an airgun and a rosary.  That’s summer class, Innernetz.  No tennis bracelets.  All socks, underwear, and talking bathroom scales.

One student showed up on the first day of class wearing a thin see-through t-shirt.  Over his left breast — on his skin — he’d drawn a pocket with lines so wavy that I wondered if he suffered from acute astigmatism or, more likely, heroin withdrawal.  As part of what must have been this week’s art therapy assignment, he’d also drawn a fake nametag on the fake pocket.  There, in bright gold marker under “Hello, My Name Is” was the name “Playa.” Yes, the thirty-ish-year-old student with mutton chop sideburns and a hand-drawn name tag wants to be called “Playa.” Um, no. 

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked him. “Naw, man.  This is my tag, man,” he responded, using his right fist to deliver two weak thumps to his scrawny chest like a consumptive Roman legionnaire. He tried to catch the eye of the class slut woman sitting next to him. She didn’t notice.  She was distracted by her own issues, sliding around in her seat as if sitting on a Spirograph.  I couldn’t tell if she was perfecting the moves for her next lap dance or if she had simply forgotten to take off her NASCAR-grade Mobil 1 pre-moistened panties. 

“Well, my roster says your name is Archie so why don’t we go with that.” He grumbled and frowned.  By exposing his true identity, I had obviously ruined his chances with Miss Fucksalot who, by this time, had hooked her stilettos around the legs of the chair and sat slouched, staring at the floor.

Playa was a stroll on the beach.  I pwned him the very first day.  Check and mate.  But the Gary Busey lookalike who sits behinds Playa is a different story.  Busey wants nothing less than complete victory and every day is a battle for control of the proverbial chessboard.  Busey is a pompous brownnoser whose self-important classroom pontifications make Bill O’Reilly look like a zen mantra.  This alone wouldn’t be so bad if Busey could simply stay on topic.  Instead, every single class he channels Sarah Palin after a pot of espresso.  On top of this, he inexplicably lugs a ginormous wheeled suitcase to class every day.  I don’t know what he carries in that suitcase, but I’ll admit that I’ve cut him some slack just in case it’s money.

Yesterday, as I started taking attendance, I noticed Busey wasn’t in his usual seat.  I sighed a deep, contented sigh.  It was going to be a good day.  I wouldn’t have to cut him off in the middle of a pretentious speech wholly unrelated to the class discussion.  I wouldn’t need to shut down his impromptu poll of the class regarding whether or not I should extend the next paper deadline.  My attendance policy is notably draconian.  If you miss attendance you are marked absent.  No excuses.  Period.  End of story.  I looked forward to marking a giant purple X next to his name on the attendance sheet.

When I was halfway through the roster I heard a door in the hall creak open on its rusty hinges. The sound echoed, bouncing off the grey industrial walls in warning.  The creaking continued.  The sound became the wheels of a mammoth suitcase creaking down my spine.  It felt as if someone was wheeling over my grave.  My eyes whipped to the tiny glass partition in the classroom door.  Busey!  Damn!  I looked at my roster and knew I had just seconds to complete it before he and his Samsonite wife came sauntering into the classroom.  I decided to speed things up a bit.

“Sleeper!”

“Here!”

“Miss Fucksalot!”

“Here!”

I could hear his Bruno Magli’s slapping against the tile.  Closer and closer.  Faster, Dingo, I thought.  Faster!

“Smart Guy!” “Here!” “Clueless” “Here!” “Nice Dresser!” “Here!”

I looked out the partition window again and it was almost my downfall.  I made eye contact with Busey.  He saw me standing there with my gradebook in hand and broke into a run.  Shit!  I called names and didn’t even wait for the students to acknowledge their presence.

“Exchange Student, Emo, Chatty Cathy, Cheerleader!” “Here! Here! Here! Here!”

Busey was racing down the hallway, the wheels of his luggage shrieking, “Here! Here! Here!” I watched as he swam in a panic toward the door, eyes dark and flickering like a shark about to feed, trying desperately to maintain his tenuous grasp on his carry-on, that all-knowing, toothy grin on his face.  Fortunately, his suitcase acted as a wobbly anchor, slowing his arrival by overturning and crashing into a wall.  If I hadn’t been holding pen and paper I would’ve rubbed my hands together with glee and thrown back my head with a hearty “Mwahahaha!” But there wasn’t time.

“Shy Girl!” “Here.”

And DONE!

I scribbled an X next to Busey’s name, a bruise he would wear for the rest of the summer semester, and tossed the attendance sheet onto the desk in triumph.  He dashed through the door two seconds later, his baggage slamming into the doorjamb and sliding to a halt.  “HERE!” he screamed. 

“Awww, sorry,” I said.  “I just finished taking attendance.”

“But Ms. Dingo —”

I put on a sad face and slowly shook my head as I held my thumb and finger an inch apart, “So close, Busey.  So close.” That was when he righted his battered suitcase and began to unzip it.  Fuck.  Was this it?  Is this how I was goin’ down?

He unzipped the suitcase just enough to slide one sweat-slicked arm into the dark opening and pulled out — a Diet Pepsi.  Which he offered to me. 

“But Ms. Dingo, I was late because I stopped to get you a Diet Pepsi.  You always get one during break and I thought you’d like one at the beginning of class.”

The Diet Pepsi was in bad shape.  It was dented and hissing from its perilous ride down the hallway.  His sweaty arm reached in my direction, pushing the battered nectar toward me.  I hesitated for two nanoseconds before accepting his offer.

“Take your seat, Busey. Don’t be late again.”

As Busey made his way to the back of the class, banging shins and elbows with his monstrous bag, I caught the slight glimmer of a smirk.  But I didn’t mind.  After I let the Diet Pepsi settle, I would be basking in glory as the luscious drink burned its way down my throat.

Well played, Busey.  Well played.  But the game has only just begun.

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