Less than eight days to get a copy of Jean Paul Sarte’s No Exit and Existentialism Is a Humanism. Huge presentation due for a literature class on “Alternative Realities in Modern and Post-Modern Literature.” (Title of the class clearly made up by a nearly senile professor with more tenure than sense). Agreed only to be the first presenter to intimidate my other classmates and to establish myself as a real presence in graduate school. Figured the university library would own such seminal titles. Nope, they were not owned by the library. Interlibrary loan was about a two to four week process and the only two local books stores in town would also have to order the book (This was 1995 prior to popular online book stores).
Out of desperation, I asked classmates if they owned the books. One of the graduate assistants said, “I know a guy.” The guy came through with the books. My presentation earned me a fantastic grade, numerous accolades from the professor but mostly pity from my classmates who were not awed or intimidated, just shocked that I had nothing better to do with my time than study. Out of sympathy, they offered a half-hearted invitation to bar grand opening in the downtown. They really didn’t want me there and I didn’t really want to be there. But since I completed my entire semester’s worth of papers in the first three weeks of school and just finished re-reading Wuthering Heights for fun, I had absolutely nothing to do but go to a bar.
Turned out that the guy with books and I were the only ones without dates that night. Just plain awkward. I was the only Northerner among a bunch of Texans that called every drink “Coke” even if it was Sprite, orange juice, or beer. As I was trying to figure out what hell “fixin” meant, the guy with the books asked me about my presentation which led to more literature which led to poetry talk which led to Sylvia Plath. This guy loved Plath more than me. He knew way more than the average smart, poetry guy who feigns interest in Plath and quotes “Daddy” to get in young ladies’ pants.
The guy with the books knew enough Plath to get me to say “yes” forever.
