He pulled the stereo plug from the outlet and stuck the prongs in an adapter. Electronic devices were greedy, sucking up electricity even when turned off. Flipping the switch on the adapter would cut off consumption completely.
There was only one digital clock in the entire house, the alarm clock on the dresser in the bedroom. The refrigerator wasn’t modern or efficient, but the cost of replacing it would outweigh any energy savings. His phone plugged directly into the line with a cord and worked without a power plug. The answering machine, necessary in this day and age, consumed a trivial amount of power. There was no air conditioning system, only a gas furnace for heat in the cold winter.
The water heater in the basement already had insulation wrapped around it, and was turned to the lowest tolerable setting. Suffering for faith was one thing, but taking cold showers was pointless torture. He was leaving so he flipped the adapter switch on the stereo. The red receiver light, waiting for a signal, faded away.
“You cannot have a negative square number. It is not real, it doesn’t exist...relatively. The root of four is two, but what number do you square to get negative four? You can’t do it. However, we need to be able to quantify this term. Therefore, we write a negative square root as i. i is the square root of negative one. Everyone follow?”
One person in the back nodded.
“Erherm! Does everyone follow?”
This time more people nodded, some murmuring what sounded like agreement.
“Good. Make sure you keep up, people. It’s going to get more complicated now.”
In the back row a student’s hand raised tentatively.
“Yes?”
The student said, “Where’s X?”
“Excuse me?”
“What happened to X? In the equation?”
“X isn’t in the equation. Only i.”
“I what?”
“The term i. The one that represents the square root of negative one.”
“I’m sorry,” said the student. “I’m lost.”
“See me after class,” he said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Which happens to be ending right now. We’ll stop and finish Wednesday. Follow the assignment on your syllabus, section 2.1.”
The speed with which students evacuated the room was always amazing. Within five seconds a clot of people formed as they all tried to fit through a single door. He couldn’t help muse to himself that had they maintained a semblance of order their exit speed would be increased two-fold. When they clustered it became a question of whose turn it was to go, and when the reaction time of one student waiting for another to go was multiplied a dozen times, it greatly increased the time needed to pass through.
He crossed one Hush Puppy over the other, leaned against the table in front of the classroom, and slipped his hands into the nooks of his elbows. Very quickly it was only he and the student left in the room.
“Well, let’s see what we can do for you. Tell me where you got lost.”
“The X and I part. The part about the square root.”
“I’m glad you stayed to get straightened out. People might underestimate Algebra, but when you get to this level in college, it moves very quickly and it’s easy to fall behind.”
“I know. I made that mistake with English Composition.” The student smiled. “Luckily my teacher took pity on me and gave me a B.”
“Ah, well I don’t serve pity in my class. Everyone has to earn their grade here.”
The student’s eyes, like two frosty ponds, immediately darted down to the notes.
“Oh, I know, I was just saying that I know what falling behind is. I want to earn it. My grade, that is.”
“You should see the tutor if you do get behind. She took two of my classes and gives very good notes.”
He left the table and walked through the rows of desks, stopping at the back row. Up close he could see the student was an athlete, a developed form masked beneath loose clothing.
“Show me where the problem is. Oh, and your name is?”
The student smiled with perfect teeth. “I’m Marc. Thanks for the help.”
Water this good didn’t come from the tap. Professor V, as he told the students to call him, filled a sports bottle at the Mathematics Department. It was cold, purified spring water. One of the straps on his leather attaché case was secretly stapled inside. The rest of his appearance was clean cut. He knew that being a professor required an investment in clothing, for maintaining a respectable appearance was necessary. The tweed sport coat he wore had been repaired, but professionally, and the shoes were only a few months old. The pants themselves were bought off a discount rack at J.C. Penney’s, but that counted as new since they came from a department store.
There were some in the past who had called him an attractive man, people remembered wistfully but guiltily. That life was gone now, sacrificed for a higher path. He fingered a chain around his neck, lifting a cross and letting it fall. It was worth the sacrifice.
Someone rapped lightly on his office door and a moment later Marc pushed inside. “Hi, Mr. V. That tutor chick is completely booked.”
“Tutor chick?”
“Jennifer, the tutor, is completely booked. For the next two months.”
He responded with “Ah, that’s a shame.”
“So, I was wondering if you could tutor me. I mean, do you do that?”
He said “Not usually. Sometimes I make exceptions if it’s warranted. Are there no other math tutors available?”
“No, none of their schedules match.”
He looked at his desk, thinking for a moment. There was a cup of Earl’s Breakfast Tea steaming on a cork coaster and Tchaikovsky was playing lightly in the background. It was worth the effort if the help was appreciated, but if it was just someone looking for the answers to a test... Yet, he didn’t get that vibe.
“Maybe we can set something up. Do you have a copy of your schedule so I can figure out when a mutually plausible appointment could be made?”
Marc nodded, reached into the book bag across his shoulder, and thumbed through a binder. After a moment of looking, he slipped out a sheet of paper with dog-eared corners and set it on the desk.
“Are you free next Tuesday? Or do you want to do it on a day you have classes?”
“Oh, I work Tuesdays and Thursdays at Hulligans, my uncle’s bar. If we could do it Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, that would be great.”
“How is next Monday, four o’clock?”
Marc said “That’d be perfect. Hey, a religious man.”
He turned towards where Marc was looking, the worn King James bible on the coffee table. Though it wasn’t the most recent update, for scholars were always discovering nuances on the translation, it had been reliable enough for two decades.
“Yes, although I would say more spiritual than religious.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, religious people follow rules and writings more devoutly than faith. Spiritual people focus more on that faith.”
“In that case, I’d have to say I’m pretty spiritual too. Sometimes I still wear the rosary I got in the eighth grade.”
He rose from the chair, standing half an inch shorter than the young man. In his own day he had been in good shape too.
“Well, thanks for stopping by,” he said, extending his hand.
Marc said, “No problem, thank you for helping me out.”
For a moment the grasp lingered, each one squeezing tightly, testing the other. He didn’t relent, matching Marc’s callused grip. A moment later they broke free, smiling broadly.
“You work out, Mr. V?”
“Occasionally. The Bible says the body is a temple to the Lord.”
“That’s good. Not enough people do nowadays. Anyway, see you Monday.”
It was too cold and the thermostat wasn’t working. The problem hadn’t been discovered until late in the afternoon, and he was still waiting for maintenance to come. In the meantime, the vents continually blasted cold air. The clock read 3:59 when Marc knocked on the door.
“Come in,” he called Marc was already holding the textbook. He looked up and smiled from the swivel chair.
“Pull that over,” he said, nodding to a wooden chair in the corner. Half an hour ago it had been the receptacle for spare books and papers. Now it was clear in preparation for the study session. Marc seated himself and opened his books.
As soon as he saw what the difficulties were, he was relieved. The problem was with the note-taking process. Apparently what was going into the notebook wasn’t exactly what was on the board.
He said, “Just make sure to pay exact attention in class. I’ve seen people who assume they can catch up later, correct their notes from the book, etcetera. Those people never actually fix the missing pieces. It’s much easier to get it down right the first time.”
Marc said, “Ah...I didn’t see it that way.
“It will, trust me.”
“Mr. V.”
“Call me Russell out of the classroom.”
“’Kay...there’s a rumor around campus...something I wanted to ask your advice about, something completely off topic.”
He froze. Rumors were bad.
“What rumor?”
“Well...I don’t know how to put this...umm...oh, hell.”
Marc did something that completely shocked him, something that made him appreciate that the door was closed. Marc leaned across the distance and kissed him.
Every inch of ration in his body screamed to push away the advance of a student, but ration failed. His arm came around and his palm went flat across Marc’s back. For a moment their lips were putty.
Finally they broke apart at the same time.
“Oh God, it’s wrong, it’s wrong,” he said.
Marc said “No, no, it’s not wrong. We just think it is. It’s all relative, Russell. Like in philosophy, morals change from generation to generation.”
“I’m sorry, that wasn’t supposed to happen, we can’t do this.”
Marc said “Meet me in five minutes.”
“What!”
“Meet me in five minutes in the weight room. It’s closed but I have a key. Meet me,” he said, opening the door and rushing out.
“Marc!”
There was no response. He stepped forward and shut the door. This was wrong. Completely, totally wrong. This was temptation. This was sin. But he was torn, oh he was torn. Please, he begged in his mind. Strike me with guidance right now, don’t force me to choose. Not one sign came.
Coming to the weight room turned out to be a terrible mistake. Psychics may be able to see the future, but most people can only see mistakes with hindsight. Professor Russell knocked on the locker-room door, then pounded. A sob came, “Go away.”
“Are you...are you okay, Marc?”
The response resounded through the door, causing tiny curls of peeling paint to vibrate. “Go away!”
“I did not mean to hurt you. Do you want me to get help? To get a doctor?”
“Leave...me...alone!” The response came closer to the locker room door. Something like a fist pounded on the other side. There was quiet for a moment and then the hush of sobbing in the distance. It sounded as though Marc whispered something inside, but it was an indiscernible murmur.
He pressed an ear against the mottled plane of the door. The whisper came again, more audible “...fuck did you do? Why? Why!”
He cupped a hand against it and said “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you stop! I was fighting to get away! I was fighting!”
“I...thought you were groping.”
Marc didn’t acknowledge whether he heard. Except for the sound of rustling paper, it was silent inside. Either he was wiping away tears or wiping away blood.
There was nothing to do leave another to be remembered guiltily. It would be okay, though, because all sins were forgiven. All sins.
