Something Fierce

Copyright © 2013 by David Drayer

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America by Route 33 Press.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review—without permission from the publisher. This includes reprints, excerpts, photocopying, recording, or any future means of reproducing text. Permission can be sought by contacting the publisher at
[email protected]
.

ISBN 978-0-9892827-2-7

v1.0

Cover and Book Design: Thierry Klann
Author Photo: Samuel J.Garza

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my amazing family: Mom and Dad, Sis and Chuck, Bubble and Brian, and my niece, Sammi.
You are always, always there for me and I love you dearly.

This novel is dedicated to its first three readers:
Janet K. Stadulis, Thierry Klann, and Susan Kane

Without your extraordinary insight and feedback, it would not be the book it is today.

“There are men whose desire for truth is so great that to attain it they will shatter the very foundation of their world.”

W. Somerset Maugham,
The Moon and Sixpence

“Across the divide, deep and unbridgeable, my body responds independently from my mind. My heart, somewhere between them, plunges.” 

Kathryn Harrison,
The Kiss

A
t 11:50 on Monday
morning
, Seth Hardy was sitting on Erie Street in the small town of Willoughby, Ohio, twenty miles east of Cleveland, phone in hand, scanning the area for a familiar face. He could still cancel. It would be rude, but he could do it. The visiting professor had been considering it ever since he had responded to what had been the latest alluring email from Kerri Engel, a gifted student who offered to give him “a proper introduction” to the area. He knew he was in trouble as soon as he’d brazenly tapped the send button that night and agreed to meet her here in ten, make that nine minutes. No, he thought, he’d been in trouble the moment he replied to her first email. There had been no title in the subject box and it began innocently enough.

Hi Seth! How are you?

He had his students call him by his first name as much for his own comfort as for theirs. Some of them had started out addressing him as “Professor” or “Dr. Hardy” though neither title was correct. He was actually a guest instructor who had landed the gig on the merits of his debut novel, a small press book that earned impressive reviews, but remained largely unknown to the book buying public. His first batch of freshman composition students at Northeast Community College, his very first anywhere, averaged in age from eighteen to twenty-five. And though he was a lot older than they, he didn’t feel it, didn’t think he looked it, and certainly didn’t want to be reminded of it.

Thank you for the grade.

Kerri Engel didn’t need to thank anyone for a grade. She was an exemplary student. While the majority of her classmates turned in obviously rushed, grammatically weak regurgitations of class discussions that took forever to correct, she wrote insightful essays with a sharp, satirical edge. Her work was entertaining to read and easy to grade. Her last paper, titled “Textarded,” was a scathing attack on constant text messaging and its adverse effect on the current generation. Seth believed it was publishable if she toned it down a bit. He’d noted this in the margins of the paper, reminding her that the best satire was ultimately more helpful than hurtful. He encouraged her, by all means, to have a blast wielding that sword, poking fun and taking jabs at her audience, but once she got their attention, why not use that sword to point to a solution instead of cutting her readers to pieces with it? Walking by his desk, she’d said with a wry smile, “Where’s the joy in having a sword if you don’t get to really use it?”

I can’t tell you how much I am missing the class already. Every time I read something compelling, I imagine how the others in our class would see it and what your take on it might be. Corny, I know, and I am sure you are tired of hearing it, but it really was a great class.

Seth was not tired of hearing this. After more than a decade of temporary jobs all across the country and the previous six years struggling to survive in Los Angeles, teaching this past semester was the first job he had ever liked, the only profession outside of writing that he felt passionate about. Books were his constant companions and he thought it was a real shame that so many students came in admitting that they hated reading, hated writing, and had never read a book that wasn’t force-fed to them. Clearly, they had not had a proper introduction and so Seth made that his job. Aside from the class anthology—which really, he found quite good—he was excited to introduce them to short stories, plays, and poetry penned by lesser-known, controversial writers that went right to the guts of what the eighteen to twenty-five crowd was turned on by, pissed off about, and just plain scared of.

The class discussions grew from lethargic to rowdy and so uncensored—and seemingly irreverent—that he always made sure the door was closed. Attrition was a problem at the college, but not in the sections taught by Seth Hardy. Most students never used the two unexcused absences that he allowed. By the end of the semester, the gaping holes in their grammatical and analytical skills were only beginning to fill in but for the first time in their young lives, they had something to say and therefore, a desire to say it clearly.

Seth could not, however, take credit for Kerri Engel. She had developed an appetite for reading along with the ability to synthesize and write clearly long before breezing in and through his class.

So…enough chit chat and on with the real purpose of this letter. I have a problem and would be grateful for your insight. First of all, I have to confess that from the instant you walked into the classroom, I found you incredibly sexy. So much so that it was very difficult for me to concentrate throughout the semester because, riveting as your lectures were, I was fantasizing about what a wonderful lover you must be: passionate and strong, but tender; sincere, yet never too serious.

I tried to keep my infatuation hidden for obvious reasons, but our eyes did meet from time to time and while I’m sure it didn’t have the same stomach-dropping effect on you as it did on me, I do believe one of those private, little encounters caused you to lose your train of thought.

Seth had remembered the moment vividly. He thought he’d recovered without anyone noticing. He knew the students liked him and that many of the girls
really
liked him. The terms “hot” and “eye candy” had been overheard on occasion and cleavage and lacy thongs peeking above low-riding jeans never seemed to be in short supply in his classes. But it was harmless. He didn’t flirt back—or not much anyway—and he was as popular with the guys as he was with the girls. Any temptation he had to play favorites was instantly quelled by the memory of a professor from his own college days, the repulsive Dr. Long, who not only fawned over the class cuties, but would always call on one of them to read a particularly suggestive or outright vulgar passage.

But Kerri Engel was not one of the class cuties in the traditional sense, not in her manner or dress. Her style was more sophisticated, less obvious though even when she wore jeans and a sweatshirt, she stood out in a way the class cuties did not. There was a strange light in her eyes that suggested not only intelligence but an overwhelming sensuality.

I assumed that when the class ended and I was not seeing you every Tuesday and Thursday at noon, the daydreams would stop and my yearning would begin to fade. This has not been the case. The truth is, now that you are no longer my teacher, they have intensified. Do you have any suggestions on how I might get some relief?

I know that you are still settling into the area. I have lived here all my life. How about I give you a tour of Cleveland, a proper introduction, while we discuss possible solutions to my problem?

Have a great Christmas break!

Kerri

“What do normal professors do when a student sends them an email like that?” his buddy, Graham had asked last week as they drank their way up one side and down the other of the infamous Cleveland Flats.

“I don’t know anyone well enough to ask,” Seth said, as they’d walked out of what had once been a power station and currently housed three floors of restaurants, bars, and nightclubs on the west bank of the Flats. “Plus, I don’t want to get the girl into any trouble.”

“Sounds like she
is
trouble,” Graham said. He was visiting from San Francisco, but their friendship stretched all the way back to their undergraduate years. His take on the situation was not a surprise. Graham was always the more cautious of the two. “How old is she again?”

“Twenty.”

“That’s a dangerous age.”

“At least she’s not eighteen,” Seth said, as their footfalls crunched over a sidewalk scattered with salt crystals.

“It’d be better for you if she was.”

“How do you figure that?”

“If she were eighteen, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation,” Graham said, gazing up at the two smokeless stacks of the redbrick Powerhouse towering against the dark sky, “because she would obviously be more kid than adult. Sure, she’d catch your eye and technically, she’d be old enough to vote for her president, die for her country, and have sex with whoever she damn well pleased, but unless she flashed you her tits or something, I seriously doubt an eighteen-year-old would cause you to get lost in the middle of a lecture. But at twenty, she knows just enough to be dangerous.”

“It’s not like I’m taking her up on the offer.”

“But you’re going to respond. That shows interest.”

“That shows decency. What the hell am I supposed to do? Just ignore her. Leave her hanging?”

“Damned right. Make like you never heard from her at all.”

“I can’t do that.” Seth took a seat on a cold, metal park bench. “She was an interesting girl. Intelligent. It took a lot of guts to send that email. The least I can do, especially since I am not going to meet her, is tell her that.”

“Just remember, this is halftime. You want to stay focused, make good decisions, not get distracted.”

“Right. Wait. What are you talking about?”

“Halftime. You know, the fifteen minutes between the first and second half where you regroup, make adjustments, mentally prepare for the second half of the game.”

“Oh, yeah.” This was a football metaphor Graham had concocted a few drinks ago. “How’d that go again?”

“You played fearlessly in the first half. You followed your heart, your gut. Instead of doing what you were supposed to do, you did what you wanted to do. You didn’t hold back. You went for it with everything you had.” Graham joined him on the bench. “It was impressive. Hell, I wanted to go for it like that in my life. Everyone I know wanted to go for it like that.”