Professor Pipe: A Drama

Yes. I was thinking when this Iraq vacation is over with, that maybe Ramos and I could opt out for the upcoming USO Tours in Writing. I don’t think they have those yet but they (whoever they are) should start one. It’s certain we’ll be in need of USO something or others for special upcoming events as long as the Bad Boys are throwing their little tantrums up and down the parallels of the globe.


Yes. I'd have to write. I’m sure Steve could handle his own with a “live” audience. I, on the other hand, go to pieces if I have to get up and speak or read. Anything oral. As Aaron spoke for Moses, so Aaron spoke for me. To finish my first creative writing class, I was required to give a 6 minute reading of my work. I threw a little hissy about this one. Here is a semi-fictional account of the account.

Professor Pipe: A Drama

“Please don’t make me do this! I took a class to write, not to speak,” I plead.

Prof. utters a guttural “mmm” and continues to drag on unlit pipe. “MMMmm,” he continues, deeper. More guttural.

Some time passes.

Passes some more time.

Time passes some more.

Two leap years pass slowly by and a new form of the alphabet: Nomenclature: Binary Bean Count, has just been introduced to a politically correct world of the one remaining vegetable that has not been yanked off the shelves, pulled up out of the dirt, put people on respirators and scared the living thunder out of the others. Yes! Why: It really is ‘Count Binary Bean Count’ that has taken over the world and uses people as its alphanumeric introduction to creativewritingforvegetables.101.

Why, by Jove, this proves it. Survival of the Fittest! Darwin got more than sunburn, after all. Oh my and how time flies as the Prof removes the pipe from his dry lips, smacking little sucking noises as if the pipe were truly blazing.

He’s a poet.

Dark.

Thoughtful.

But where did the bean come? He’s questioning deep within.

And alas, he’s drawn back into the world of dreadful academia; not by desperation of the typical nontraditional student, complete with crow’s feet embedded into a thoughtful but anxious temple. Their claws feathered out, imitated the gaudy pink sunglasses she’d once ordered out of her most recent issue of It’s All About You: a magazine for women who try desperately to grab that golden ring at a golden age, but need dark sunglasses to do it. Sort of like those little things you sleep in. What are they called? Eye shields? Eye Masks? What?

Anyway, they’re size large. Pink. Think Elton John.

But no, it’s none of this: it’s only the droppings of pipe flakes upon his newest suede leather jacket, direct from Armanilooksforlowerprices.com

“Every student is required to give a reading of his or her work. Check your syllabus.”

“But I just started on Paxil for panic attacks.” My voice is at a whisper, I’m reeling him into a secret I don’t just hand out to the world and all its critics.

He doesn’t bite. His mind is working on his new poem. “Mz. Miller, the syllabus…”

I cut in. “Then, can I bring my son to read for me in case I can’t?”

“I’ll allow that,” he says as he flicks a piece of cherry apple wood pipe crumb from his suede sports slash smoking jacket, plotting his next move for Pipe’s Poetz, a new and exciting journal featuring prizewinning essays on poems and the effects of aromatherapy and imagery in the alliteration of words and line length in the prose poem.

His had been one of the prizewinning essays on poems.

Yes, I’m a little lost as well. So, we’ll just wrap up this tidbit of fiction and end with its true ending (although this stuff could have been going on in the poet's mind. We can’t prove that it wasn’t.)

So. It's a theory, really, then. Isn't it?

So. We’ll call it the Theory of Thoughts During Thinking About How To Answer the Stupid Student.

The Reader’s Digest Version: I took Aaron with me but read my own thing from my own mouth from my own little school seat. Aaron hooked up with some cheerleader who sat across from me. (I’m not sure of the full implications of this phrase, hooked-up, and truly, I probably don't need 'enlightening' at this stage. Perhaps I should say they made plans to talk or meet again later. I am the child’s mother, after all.) I found this out on the way home.

I never even suspected. I was nervous and he was perfect.

End of story.

Love. Really, And blessings and deep, very deep prayer for your safety. Blessings on you and all you love,

The One Aaron Spoke For