Underwood, Scotch, and Wry Read online

  Contents

  Copyright Ebook

  Title Page

  Newsletter

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  About The Author

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and story contained within, are created within the fertile imagination of the author. Any resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, or any events, are purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means electronic, mechanical, printing, photocopying, recording, chiseling in stone, or otherwise, without the written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. For information regarding permission contact the publisher.

  Copyright© 2014 by Brian D. Meeks All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9851046-9-6

  Underwood, Scotch, and Wry

  by

  Brian D. Meeks

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Monday, a few minutes after noon, he knocked on the imported, mahogany door. The secretary, with her practiced tone of disapproval, had announced his arrival. He walked in and found the President of Beckerston College sharing a cigar with the Dean of Liberal Arts.

  He looked at the dean and the president, gave a mocking bow, and said, “I was summoned by your Excellency.”

  President Jonathan Grosvenor put out his cigar and said, “You’re late.”

  “It is only four minutes after noon.”

  “Our meeting was at ten.”

  “I am unfamiliar with this ten thing of which you speak.”

  “Maybe if you would get up at a reasonable hour once in a while you would be?”

  “I’ll have you know I arose well before noon to make the trek to your hallowed tower.”

  Dean Mary Shingle put her cigar down and said, “You live on campus. It is a ten minute walk, and you didn’t even bother to shave.”

  “I didn’t realize it was a formal gathering, your grace.”

  The president took a seat behind his desk. Mary pointed to a chair and said, “The reason we’ve called you in today is that we’re going to need you to take on an additional class.”

  “I’m far too busy with my novel, and, as I’ve told you before, I’ll not teach the lowly freshmen their English.”

  She looked at the president. A wry smile settled over top the sour look that was her norm. She said, “Arthur, we wouldn’t think of burdening you with English 101. A much more exciting opportunity awaits you. You’re being given SMS 301. Dear Mrs. Clayton has, well, let’s just say she has become unavailable.”

  “I’m not familiar with SMS 301, but I know that Mrs. Clayton has run off to Belize with that knobby-kneed buffoon from the history department, Doogie Houser.”

  “Donald Houserman, and, yes, they’ve left us in an unfortunate position. We have just over 100 bright-eyed students, many of whom have parents who are very generous and expect the class to be offered. We can hardly disappoint them, can we?”

  “I think you’ll find that I am more than qualified to disappoint them. One might say there are few things I relish more than crushing the spirits of our...”

  “Yes, we are well aware, but this isn’t a request.”

  Arthur, perpetually on the cusp of a hollow threat of quitting, said, “I can’t possibly be ready to teach a class about...What is SMS 301?”

  President Grosvenor stood and said, “Don’t get all worked up, Arthur. It’s a new course, cutting-edge really, which was added to the catalog last spring for this fall semester. SMS stands for Social Media Sciences.”

  “What in God’s name is the science of social media and why would you think I could possibly teach this course?”

  “You are a writer, and content is king so I’m told. All 104 slots filled up on the first day of registration.”

  “Content?”

  President Grosvenor walked around the desk, a signal that the meeting was coming to a close, and said, “Gladys has a syllabus for you. You’ll cover Facebook, Twitter, that sort of thing, but the main focus will be blogging. You do have a computer, don’t you?”

  Arthur was stunned and didn’t hear anything after the word “blogging.” He did not personally own a computer and barely tolerated the one that sat in the corner of his office.

  “Arthur, if you have any questions, Mary will be happy to give any guidance you might need.”

  Mary sneered and said, “It would be my pleasure to help any way I can.” The “piss off, you arrogant luddite, you’re on your own” was implied.

  Arthur found his legs and stood. “Blogging?! You want me to teach about blogging? I’d sooner be trampled by a wandering herd of pachyderms or teach sex education to a wondering pack of teenage boys than wade into the great unwashed masses that pour out their failed ambitions on the...” he paused to affix disgust firmly to his face and continued an octave lower, “internet.”

  “You’ll be fine,” President Grosvenor said, patting him on the back.

  Without looking back, he said, “I know this is your doing, Mary, and you will rue the day that you brought this to my door.”

  Mary said, “Have a lovely day, Arthur. Your first class is on Wednesday at the Peterson Lecture Hall...8 a.m.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Edgar’s Pit served burgers and fries at a reasonable price, but on Mondays they were half-price. To Arthur, that seemed wholly reasonable, which was why he was a fixture at the end of the bar. More than anything he hated average, fair, or normal. He was always in search of the tail on the bell curve.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” said Eric.

  “Your proclivity for deduction rivals that of the chief resident of 221B Baker Street. Will you be off to the opium dens after lunch?”

  “The problem with your sarcasm is that nobody gets your references. I heard you’ve been assigned to SMS 301.”

  “They expect me to teach a generation who can’t be bothered to use whole words how to blog. The only thing worse than bloggers are the dregs of society that our fine institution of higher learning bilks for their parents’ trust fund money,” Arthur said as he set his drink down on the manila envelope that Gladys had
given him as he was ushered from the President’s office.

  Eric picked up the syllabus and flipped each page over with no small measure of amusement.

  “Have you even used a computer?”

  “I have, twice, and I found it to be a mind-numbingly dull experience. I think they’re a fad.”

  “You are far too much of a curmudgeon for your age.”

  “I’m exactly the right amount of curmudgeon for a man of forty-five,” he said, loud enough for the bar manager to hear him.

  “You’re fifty-three.”

  “I should think a mathematician of your caliber would be familiar with the concept of rounding.”

  “How is forty-five a choice for rounding from fifty-three?”

  “You should be a blogger. I think high-level math has passed you by.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to drink this fine single malt and finish my fries. Beyond that, I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “I mean about the class.”

  “I suppose I’ll fake it.”

  “You know why Mary picked you, Dr. Byrne?”

  “Because she’s a foul woman who hasn’t been laid in nigh on twenty years and harbors a deep-seated resentment of my literary achievements.”

  “You wrote a best seller in 1993, had a small measure of celebrity, and have been trading on it ever since. I think your account is about dry. Have you written anything lately?”

  “So I haven’t published in the last few years.”

  “It has been twenty. Twenty years since you’ve published anything.”

  Arthur finished his drink, set it on the bar, and, in a combination move, waved his arm to order another drink and dismiss his friend’s comment. “What’s your point?”

  “Mary is trying to get rid of you.”

  “I have tenure.”

  “Yes, but the performance clause...”

  “I teach three other classes. Doesn’t the performance clause say something about 75% of the...”

  “It’s students; you must fulfill your teaching requirements with regards to 75% of the students who are enrolled in your classes. And how many are in SMS 301?”

  “That bitch.”

  “I don’t believe that is a number. Were you rounding again?”

  “There are 104.”

  “And how many are in your other three classes?”

  “Less than 312. It’s a ridiculous clause. I’ve never heard of anything like it in academia.”

  “I think we are the first in the nation to have it, but that isn’t the point. You need to make it through the semester, or you’re out.”

  A long silence followed. Eric ordered a burger basket and let Arthur mull things over. A bubbly young woman with a book clutched to her ample bosom eased up next to Arthur and asked, “Dr. Byrne, I was wondering if you would mind signing this?”

  The cloud that followed Arthur around always seemed to dissipate when a prospective bad decision hovered nearby. “I’d be happy to. What’s your name?”

  She smiled. “Clarissa.”

  “A fine name. Have you read Samuel Richardson?”

  “No, what has he written?”

  “Among other things, he penned, in 1748 I believe, a novel called, Clarissa: Or the History of a Young Lady,” Arthur said as he handed her back the book.

  “Do you think they would have it in the library?”

  “In fact, I believe they do. It’s from a different age, but you may still find it interesting. Are you a student?”

  “Yes, Dr. Byrne, I’m a junior, but I just transferred, so this will be my first semester.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a world of experience that will more than justify the princely tuition you’ve paid.”

  “I have a Bequeath Scholarship, but I am sure you are right.”

  “Really? Then you are a writer as well.”

  “Not yet, but it’s my dream.”

  “Well, be sure to stop by my office any time if you need a pointer.”

  “Thanks,” she said and floated away.

  Arthur’s mood was greatly improved.

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll not be bullied.”

  “You’ll be out on your ass...”

  “I’ll be fine. I can always...”

  “And you’ll no longer have a new crop each year of those adoring wood nymphs you hire as teaching assistants.”

  The cloud returned. “I’m screwed.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Arthur, taking a break from his lunch time drinking, snoozed on the couch in his office. A relic from the 70s, the leather was cracked and worn in all the right places and fit him like a twenty-eight-year-old grad student with a history of bad decision making. The knock at the door was not appreciated. “Come in, or, if you have an ounce of decency in you, don’t.”

  “Dr. Byrne,” said a woman’s voice, which was vastly more acceptable than the alternative.

  Without opening his eyes or removing his arm from across his face, Arthur said, “Yes?”

  “I’m Wen Hu.”

  “If you’re Wen Hu, then I must be ‘What’s on Second?’ Now state your business and leave me to my slow and steady decline into an abyss of irrelevance.”

  “What’s on second? I don’t understand.”

  Arthur decided to open his eyes on the off chance that his visitor might be attractive. She was. “I’ll give you a hint, Bud and Lou. That should be enough for you to look on BoobTube and unravel the mysteries of my reference. If you’ve got nothing else to do.”

  “Do you mean YouTube?”

  “Use whatever you like. What brings you around during nap time?”

  “The other TA’s and I would like to know when you planned on getting together.”

  “There are others?”

  “Five of us. I just got the email about you taking over the class this morning.”

  Arthur got up and took his place behind the desk. He rubbed his temples and said, “Please take a seat, Lou.”

  “It’s Hu.”

  “I know. Now, presumably since you checked your email, you’re one of those people who use computers to waste their time on that internet thing?”

  “Yes. It is a class on social media, and, who doesn’t use the internet?” she asked. Wen looked at his bare desk and added, “Where is your computer?”

  “It is yonder, beneath that stack of Muddy Waters records.”

  The expression on her face made two things abundantly clear. Wen Hu had heard the rumors about Dr. Byrne but had, until now, assumed they were more urban myth than anything. The realization of truth being exactly as strange as fiction was difficult for her to comprehend. “Yes, it is true, I’m not fond of the computer, which begs the question, why have I been assigned to teach such a dreadful subject?”

  “Maybe it’s a mistake?”

  “Mary Shingle does not make mistakes. It is a superbly calculated move for which I have no reply.”

  “So, why don’t you just knock over your king and be done with it?” she said, growing annoyed with Arthur’s self-pity.

  “Do you play chess?”

  “Yes. Do you know anything about social media?”

  “I’ve heard of tweeter.”

  “It’s Twitter,” she said, shaking her head, “Have you read the syllabus?”

  “I’m waiting for the movie. I understand it’s to be done in 3D and includes cameo appearances by the cast of Glee. It should be an Oscar contender.”

  “Social media is serious business. It has changed the world.”

  “I quite doubt that.”

  “When there were earthquakes in New Zealand, people used Twitter to get word out about missing loved ones. When news breaks, it is usually social media that gets it out first even before the networks. It changes lives, decides elections, and levels the playing field for everyone. Do you know what the all- time most viewed video is on YouTube?”

  “I do not.”

/>   “It is by a Korean artist called Psy. A singer that few people outside South Korea had heard of before the video went viral.”

  “And how many people have watched this Korean singer’s video?” Arthur asked, his interest piqued.

  “The video has been viewed over one billion times.”

  Arthur didn’t have a clever response or any comment; he just let the number sort of hang there and then said, “It seems you have a real passion for this stuff.”

  “I do.”

  “Normally, that is the sort of thing I would find troubling, but with you it is only 89% so.”

  “Was that a compliment?”

  “It was not. It was a carefully considered analysis. I don’t do compliments, nor do I eat peas or tolerate fruit in Jello.”

  “Fruit in Jello?”

  “It is an abomination, and people who wed two wonderful things into such an unholy union should be killed.”

  “You’re quite a mess, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Your point?”

  Wen stood up, removed the Muddy Waters records, and opened the computer box. “Where do you want it?”

  “Any response that I might choose, I fear has been done, so I’ll just let that one pass.”

  Five minutes later Wen had his computer up and running. Thirty minutes after that, Arthur had learned the terms “browser” and “URL” and found it too taxing to go on. He suggested they go for a drink. She suggested, with quite a bit more force, that they go buy him a smart phone.

  “But if I have one of those cellular phone devices, won’t people be able to call me? Isn’t it really just a new fangled leash on which those who annoy most may tug whenever they fancy?”

  “Yes. I’ll make sure they have the shock collar app installed before you leave the store,” she said with a smile that didn’t give any hint as to whether she was kidding.

  “It can’t really shock me, can it?”

  “This is going to be an interesting semester.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The late afternoon sun seemed to take some of the edge off Wen Hu as Arthur led her to his parking spot. She hadn’t stopped talking since leaving his office. He wasn’t listening much, but the gist seemed to be that she took her TA job seriously and wasn’t going to let his need for a crash computer course stop them from enriching the minds of any who took the class. “I believe that if one attends class and pays attention, then they will have every opportunity to earn a passing grade.”