I had lunch with Randy, between classes today. It was a perfect day. The sky was an infinite, capri blue, the wind was stirring the environment, clouds were wispy and on high - in the fast lane where they could rush along - and birds cruised, gliding with no need to flap. New Haven can’t seem to decide if it’s spring or not, we’ll get a nice day only to have it snatched back, like we proved undeserving.

We sat on the tight, golf-course-like grass that covers science hill. I had to ponytail my hair because it was whipping in the twisting, physical wind and we had to keep an eye on everything - cups, wrappers and our books - because the invisible air was a mischievous thief.

Randy’s a divinity doctoral student. He was one of Peter’s (by bf) friends, originally, until I stole him for myself. They were roommates at Doc-House, a large, frat-like residence shared by doctoral students doomed to poverty by meager stipends. I like to hang with him when we can, he’s delightful and insightful, in a bitterly funny way.

He’s another chain smoker - what is it about divinity students and cigarettes? (They’re in a hurry for heaven?) He reminds me of Toby Mcguire, he’s 5’ 7” with an indoor, ashen complexion and dark brown hair that can’t seem to decide which way to point. He always wears a black mock-turtleneck shirt, jeans and sneakers. He never swears and side-eyes me when I do (which, admittedly, is too much). Usually, we hash-out the news of the day - or argue about practically anything, for fun. I think he should give up God and write comedy.

Randy was eating an over-mayonnaised chicken salad sandwich on French bread and chain-smoking - so I made him sit downwind of me. He was worried about a small, ‘filler’ seminar he took this year. He was flaming-out cause he really had no time for it - but it was the last credit he HAD to have to graduate.
“You need to grovel and pay homage,” I observed, with cold, machine logic.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Propitiation,” I said, naming it.

“Professor,” I started, in a gravely, whiny, simulated male voice, “I’ve had a hard time this semester.. because I’m working on my thesis..”
“That’ll get it done,” he chuckled, “can you leave him a voicemail for me?”
“and like,” I laughed, “I love your class and you’re such an amazing professor.. but things got.. complicated.”
“Oh, complicated.” Randy groaned, “You’re a good ****-up,” he’d said, as if that surprised him, “when do you get to practice?”
“I’ve watched people ****-up,” I’d said defensively, “you just go all girly and helpless.”
“I doubt that would work,” he’d noted dryly, lighting another cigarette.

“You DO go to class, right?” I asked, my voice rising at the end.
“Yeah,” he nodded.
“Then he knows you,” I assured him.
“I just didn’t do some of the assignments,” he’d confessed mildly.
“It’s a seminar,” I said dismissively, “I doubt he’s going to fail you.” “Hopefully,” he sighed.
“I mean, if he were going to fail you, he’d have sent you a message - an email or voicemail - right?” I reasoned, “A couple of weeks ago?”
“True,” he’d agreed, with a little twisty nod.

“You know Randy,” I began, giving voice to the hypothetical warning message Randy might have gotten, “You’re at risk of failing, we need to talk.”
“I check my voicemail,” he said, before I could ask.
“They don’t just ‘cap’ you out of the blue,” I said, using some mob lingo I learned from the Sopranos.
“Have you ever failed a class before?” I asked.
“No,” he assured me, the wind dispersing his fear pheromones.
“This is not a happy Sunday,” he’d admitted.

In the end he did ****-up and had to take a punishing, 2-hour, comprehensive (covering the entire year) test for extra credit, full of unit identities, dependency infrastructures and statistical projections.

He ended up with a “C” for the seminar. Now I suppose I’ll have to learn to call him ‘Dr.’ Randy.
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songs for this:
Handbags & Gladrags by Rod Stewart
Melt by Nilüfer Yanya
Me & Mr. Jones by Amy Winehouse