Back then, when things were good during the Clinton presidency, I taught at National University, the third-largest private institution of higher learning in California, which catered largely to working adults. 

I had just finished publishing a controversial book called Diet for a Poisoned Planet. It made a few best seller lists in the Northwest and elsewhere. I had written the book because I was poisoned as a kid fishing in the Santa Monica Bay for barracuda and calico bass, eating what I caught.     

It was a weird book to have written, I have to admit. But somehow the writing earned me a generous advance, and publishing it caused a stir. I was quite a lucky guy. I knew that. I knew it the whole time I went on tour for the book in cities across this fruited plain.

Then I had to get back to the real world, and, fortunately, I had my teaching gig at National University. Basically, that day I arrived and looked over the mature hardened grizzled blue collar faces of everyone out there I realized they were there to get their degree and me to get a paycheck—a piece of paper in their chosen profession—a few actually wanted to learn. But there was one face that wasn’t grizzled but sweet as a baby doll, rosy cheeked, eyes gleaming. She had brown hair. I turned back to the rest of the class.

Either way was fine. I loved literature and writing, cool talk all night about classics from all around the world. Besides, there were a lot of great people. I got to know people from all every race, nationality, ethnicity. I learned a lot of good things about people, generally, though I do remember my Egyptian student who was there in lieu of not serving in the military and who regularly planted answers in the lavatory. “Don’t send me back to Egypt. I’ll have to serve for sure, sir,” he pleaded, smiling.

“Oh, all right,” I said.

“No, no,” I said when he tried to hand me a Ben Franklin.

I walked out. 

I was The Professor. I wore a jacket with, oh yes, elbow patches. I was blond. All of that worked. 

I read “The Motel,” a poem about marital infidelity by W. D. Snodgrass, in our Norton Introduction to Literature. I asked if anybody knew what the poem was about.

The auburn I noticed early, she was around twenty-five, raised her arm. “Well,” she said, “they’re having an affair. She mentioned being sure ‘to keep things straight.’ You know, like the matches, the wrong key ring, no keepsakes, no ashtrays, no combs or things. Things like that matter when you have to keep your story straight. By the way, I’m Tiffany.”

She laughed in falsetto. Her cheeks glowed.

I loved that about her right away: she was extroverted. She was a live wire. That was what I wanted then—a good-looking student—just to get me wanting to come to class.

I mean I loved literature, sure, but driving down in the traffic jam that afternoon, on the 405 somewhere between Wilmington and Hacienda Heights I remember feeling, Hey, I get to see Tiffany. I liked her.  I could take her or leave her.  But she certainly seemed like a fun girl to have in class.  I was such a geek. The professor. You have to understand that about me, or maybe about myself. I’m not good at things, except maybe this. I actually conceived of this as a student-teacher relationship, in which I was the teacher.

The third week, she wore a tight black dress and her hair fell down past her shoulders. But who was this girl? What was going on here beneath the subtext? We walked together to the elevator, talking about LA and what you could do—Universal City, Catalina, Raging Waters, whatever. Truth be told, it was all a jam.

I opened the hatch of my red Corolla hatchback. I had my Spalding basketball and black high top Nikes in back.

“I thought you’d be driving a BMW or something,” she said.

“Oh?” I was thinking she knew for sure she was cutting me down.

“We’ve got to get you a better car than this piece of junk.”

“It is all paid for, at least.” I smiled and shut the hatch.

“I could make you a very successful guy. I do that for all of my boyfriends.”

“How many do you have?”

“Let me count.” I’m sure my lips turned down. She punched my shoulder. “Got you, didn’t I?”

“You punch too hard.”  I feigned being hurt.

“You’re a softie. What do you do anyway besides this gig?”

“I write.”

“Oh God, is this what you do to make money?”

I didn’t know what to say. I thought writing was a good thing to be doing, that and teaching.

“It just doesn’t bring in much bread, does it?”

“Look at the crappy car I drive. You sound kind of bitter.”

“Nah.” I slammed down the hatchback. 

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not. Now stop it. I am not a bitter guy.”

“But you seem bitter.”

“So what the hell? Okay, I’m bitter, honey. I drive a geek car. Yes, I do.” 

By now everyone had poured out of the building, leaving us alone. The eccentric beauty and the geek.

“I forgot something upstairs,” she said.

“Let me go up with you.”

Like Quasimodo I followed behind, limping along.  We went up, apart, in the elevator to the third floor. 

We got her books and came back out and waited for the elevator.

“What do you do?” I said.

“I’m in telephony. I sell switching equipment for Northern Telecom.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“If you really want to know. . .” She tapped my wrist as we walked into the elevator. “I’ve always wanted to be a singer. I wanted to sing in a rock band. I’m too old, though. How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty-five.”

The carriage jerked to a stop but the doors wouldn’t open. We were suspended between floors.  We jerked one more.  She inhaled suddenly, My hand instinctively went to her waist, above her hip, and she didn’t brush it away, but I saw she noticed out of the corner of her eye.  "Are you okay?"

"I think so."

We waited.  The phone rang.

I took the call.

"Okay, they're on the case," I said.

I hung up.

Quickly I took her chin in my fingers and drew her face to mine for a kiss.

She returned my kiss, and then she said, “Kiss me harder.”

“Like this?”

“Mmmmm. Yes.” I plastered kisses all over her face and neck.

When the elevator began moving, we kissed a moment longer, then pulled apart, our hands already interlocked.

“Next week is the end of the month and class will be done. Why don’t you come over for a barbecue?”

“I’d like that.”

“So am I going to get an A?”

“You think I’m that easy?”

“I do.”

She did.