Newsworld

Chapter 9 Sirens

174 Still I think about her. Jackie Stevens, a fellow grad student. Jackie, with shoulder-length rust hair, high cheekbones, and large eyes that gave the impression she was slightly disappointed in the world no matter how good things got. She was in the theater department, while I was in English. One might think we’d have a number of classes together, but we only had one, Renaissance Drama, which I took to satisfy my PreEighteenth -Century Brit Lit requirement. She sat on the opposite side of the room, near Dr. Hobson, our seminar director, and rarely looked my way, though I was aware of her, as were most men in the course. She came to class wearing tank tops and jeans, her hair pulled back into a French braid, and took occasional notes while Old Hobson rattled on about the social merits of Jacobean drama. From other students, I knew she was a part-time catalog model and that she’d stopped dating men at the university, though she occasionally went out with a lawyer or a bank officer, both of whom seemed Sirens 175 out of my league. Because of this, I was surprised, a year later, when she started talking to me at a student photography exhibition. I saw her walk in, escorted by two or three people attached to the photography department. She wore a black cocktail dress, complete with pumps and smoke nylons, and appeared genuinely interested in my friend Bob’s work. At the time, Bob was into large-format photography. His current series focused on modern adaptations of Greek myths. In one photo, entitled “Narcissus,” a teenage girl dressed in a torn evening gown looked at her reflection in a community pool. In another, “Medusa ,” a young man held up a mirror to an old woman with skin haggard from years of smoking. I was doing my best to mix in, say hello to anyone I knew and dodge any guilt-provoking questions about my dissertation , which I had yet to start. When I could take no more, I waved to Bob, who was chatting up a local art dealer, and went to the balcony to have a smoke. In truth, I was only an occasional smoker and trying to quit. Since finishing my coursework I’d had a lot of free time on my hands, and one of the things I’d learned was this: I was not the best with free time. I worked much more efficiently on a regular schedule, and though I still taught one freshman course each term, it wasn’t enough to direct my life toward productive research and eventual writing. I’d spent a number of nights playing poker with the guys. During these card games, I’d also eaten a lot of Cheetos, so much so I’d put on ten pounds. Because of this, I’d spent a number of afternoons playing basketball in an attempt to lose this weight, though most of these afternoons degenerated into evening card games and consequently more Cheetos. What these days did not yield was honest research, and though I was relatively certain no one, including my own committee, would ever read much of my dissertation, I still needed one to graduate. By the time I’d finished my cigarette I was somewhat pleased with myself because I’d thrown the rest of the pack over the balcony and into 176 the bushes, along with my lighter and two dollars I’d forgotten I’d rolled into the pack until I’d let the thing fly. I ordered a couple more drinks, drank them, and was talking to Buster Thompson, a grad student in history, when Jackie came over to see us. We talked about school for a while and then modeling—as it turned out Buster did some modeling on the side—and when he left, I was surprised she stayed and talked to me. She told me she wanted to be in stage productions and didn’t particularly like modeling. I told her that when I was a kid, I’d wanted to work with movies. “I didn’t want to be in them,” I clarified, “just do things, like casting or post-production.” “What are you going to do now?” she asked. “Magazine work if I can get it,” I said. “I’d like to teach, but I just don’t see myself...