Unforgiven
I had taken one of his courses previously, an introduction to ethics. By all accounts he was one of the most powerful and revered professors on campus. Indeed, his skills as an orator substantiated his reputation. Furthermore, he sat on several of the university’s most influential committees. His demeanor, at times, was noticeably arrogant and condescending, but seemed to validate and even bolster his place among the university’s elite, a sort of unspoken but clearly defined superiority. Occasionally, this notion of superiority would manifest itself during his lectures in remarks against various groups or organizations of people. Of particular bother to me, belonging to the minority of females in the class, was his tendency to belittle women. Without fail, whenever a female would attempt to ask a question or make a point he would, with surgical acumen, dissect her thoughts into tidbits of unworthy clutter that he brushed aside with an air of indifference as if they were crumbs on his lap after a meal. It was thus with a certain degree of apprehension that I enrolled in another of his courses, “Classics of Western Thought.” I needed the course for my pre-law studies and, aside from my qualms with his attitude toward women, I considered him to be an outstanding professor. I concluded that any misgivings I held could be overlooked for a semester, and I registered for the course. I would never again take one of his classes. “One must look beyond the aphoristic nature of Nietzsche’s writings,” Professor Prestwick said near the end of his last lecture before Spring break, “to grasp the crux of his ideas. The beauty and irony of his work, then, is that to understand his dictum on the need to look beyond appearances in deriving truth, one has to read beyond the often incohesive appearance of his writing.” For mid-April, the weather was warm and very pleasant. However, inside the lecture hall the atmosphere was stifling. It seemed that every spring an agonizing, week-long lag period occurred between the onset of warm weather and the turning down of building heat by maintenance personnel. Relief had not yet arrived and I would be remiss for not admitting that I harbored an inner pleasure in seeing Professor Prestwick literally melt before my watchful eyes. A man of considerable girth, his discomfort in the soup-like air was readily discernible. A thin film of sweat, illuminated by the overhead lights, glistened on his forehead. Occasionally, tiny sweat droplets would coalesce, forming a unified driblet that would cascade downward, traversing first his temple, then the top of his rotund cheek, and finally becoming engulfed in a forest of facial growth. This process prompted a dabbing of his forehead by a handkerchief followed by a wiping of his abundant neck flesh bulging between chin and shirt collar. “A theme that has surfaced previously and will be dealt with in more detail after break is the concept of woman. For Nietzsche, remember, woman represents the superficial nature of appearance. Although I don’t agree with all of his thoughts on women, just most of them [scattered male chuckles], Nietzsche effectively uses the concept of woman as a powerful tool throughout his writings. Recall one of my favorite quotations from Beyond Good and Evil where Nietzsche surmises the female is incapable of scholarly pursuits due to the superficial nature of her mind: ‘When a woman has scholarly inclinations there is usually something wrong with her sexuality,’” [more chuckles]. While I was eager to leave school on break, it was for a bleak and rather cheerless reason. Earlier in the day I received a phone call from my mother as I was leaving for a morning class. The news was devastating. My grandfather had suffered a stroke during the night and was under intensive care at the hospital. He was in and out of consciousness but my mother assured me that grandpa was stable and receiving the best possible care. She recommended that I not come home immediately because, even though loved ones were with him in the room, he was not aware of his surroundings or his family. I would be better off, she thought, to try and take the exam I had that afternoon before coming home. Wishing I had been spared the news until after I had, in fact, taken the exam, I reluctantly agreed. Actually, had my exam not been impossible to reschedule, I would have left for home without delay, but the professor giving the exam had to leave the country the next day on some sort of urgent business and was not expected to return until just before finals week. “I want you to read the Third Essay in On the Genealogy of Morals during your break. Pay close attention to the passage at the beginning because it sets the tone for the entire essay: ‘Unconcerned, contemptuous, violent—this is how wisdom would have us be: she is a woman, she only ever loves a warrior.’ Also, consider our previous discussions on Nietzsche’s attitude toward art, woman, and aesthetic ideals, and how these recurring themes help illustrate his thoughts.” “I will probably finish your exams this afternoon and have grades posted tomorrow morning for those of you pious souls staying for Friday classes. That’s all for now.” I rose from my seat and warily made my way to the lectern where Professor Prestwick stood mopping his forehead with the saturated handkerchief. “Dr. Prestwick,” I timidly began, “I have to go home this afternoon because of a family emergency. I have an exam at two o’clock and I was wondering if I came by your office afterwards, could I please see my grade if you have our exams finished?” “Well,” he stated matter-of-factly, “I can’t make any guarantees about having the exams finished by this afternoon, but I will be in the office, and you may stop in if you wish.” “Thank you,” I replied in a subservient tone and scurried away. The hallway leading to his office was dark and eerily quiet. “I guess students aren’t the only ones eager to take off for break,” I thought as I approached a door on the left with a simple nameplate that read “T. Prestwick.” The door, thick and wooden, had a large central panel of opaque glass and stood slightly ajar. “Dr. Prestwick?” I ventured after rapping lightly on the doorframe. No reply. Peeking inside, I could see this was not his actual office but rather a reception area with two long sofas in the center of the room whose distant ends angled perpendicularly to one another. Off to the left, presumably for his secretary, sat a massive oak desk flanked by several shelves looming up to the ceiling and overflowing with books and journals. The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp perched on a coffee table between the sofas. "Dr. Prestwick?" I tried again, this time more loudly. “I’m in my office,” came the brief and somewhat gruff reply. I followed the sound of his voice to another large wooden door, this one without glasswork, on the right side of the room, also slightly ajar. Gently pushing open the door, I said, “I’m in your ‘Classics of Western Thought’ class, and I was wondering if the exams were finished.” His office consisted of a desk surrounded by a jungle of bookshelves replete with every imaginable text, journal, and reference. He sat behind the desk, leaning back in his chair with legs sprawled on the desktop and crossed at the ankles. His hands were folded over the top of his head, brazenly exposing large perspiration soaked patches on the underarms of his shirt. A half-eaten sandwich lay on his desk as he busily chewed a disproportionately large mouthful. As he spoke, I noticed with a certain degree of embarrassment that a dark green sliver of lettuce lay marooned in his beard, just to the left of his mouth. “Now,” he spoke carefully between chews, “I’m about finished with your examination, but there are a few points we need to clarify.” A long and deliberate swallowing preceded the removal of his feet from the desktop, swiveling of the chair, and his getting up. Sauntering in my direction with an unsteady gait, I noticed his shirt was untucked, leaving the front hanging in space over the rounded convexity of his abdomen. He now stood only a few feet away and as he spoke, the pungent odor of alcohol escaped on his breath. “I think in order to fully evaluate your performance, we’re going to need a little hands-on work.” With that he pushed his massive stock against my smaller body, driving me backwards and into the door, which slammed shut with a muffled and ominous “Bang!” His hand quickly blanketed my mouth before I had time to react. I am not sure if it was shock over the rapid onset of events, the briny taste of his massive and sweaty palm over my face, the suffocating smell of his rancid intoxication, or the sheer pressure of his weight against me, but my body went limp. I was trapped in a flaccid encasement of skin and bone. I wanted to shout for help, to struggle, but my intentions were inexorably estranged from my inability to act. Surrounded by a moist and noxious cloud of his respiration, I was helpless. With reckless abandon he ravaged me. The labored tide of his breathing formed a maniacal rhythm. Through pursed lips he hastily drew in gasps of air and exhaled loudly through his nose. The frantic pattern of breathing crescendoed. Excruciating pain overtook my body. I could manage only to emit a soft and pitiful sigh. Then, as quickly as the invasion began, it ended. He backed away and my body crumpled to the floor, a lifeless sac of flesh. For what seemed an eternity I could neither think nor move. A tremendous pressure emanated from my inside, causing my head, chest, and stomach to feel as if they might explode at any moment. I fought for breath and finally managed to fill my lungs with air. I struggled to lift my head. He had resumed his post behind the desk and was enjoying the sandwich. My chest began to heave and soft, wretched sobs escaped from my mouth. “Oh, now, don’t worry,” he began in a soothing tone. Even the encounter had not dislodged the lettuce from his beard. “You did fine. Now, remember the examination is confidential. It stays between you and me. Besides, it’s your word against mine, and I think we both know who has the upper hand around here.” Tears welled in my eyes as fear and disbelief gave way to fury. I wanted to scream, I wanted to ransack his office, I wanted to physically harm him, but nothing could bring retribution for the wanton and barbaric nature of the trespass he had committed against my soul. Thus, I raised myself from the floor, opened the door, and left him there, fat and utterly contemptible.
Randy Heinzel |