Any Coincidence Is | Page 4

and whatever it was had passed away from the sun.
And then, there was a glint of light, hovering somewhere above the
mail truck. I bet it knows the secret, thought Justin, as he began to rock.
But if that's the case, does it still have to wait for the mail?

4. In loco parentis "I did not have sexual relations with that woman." -
President William Jefferson Clinton
Alona's persistent knocking at the door of room 412 went unanswered
for three minutes as she nervously shuffled her feet. Her book bag was
super-saturated with textbooks, notebooks, schedules, rough drafts, and

various other forms of academic paraphernalia. It was getting heavier.
She continued to knock, even though there had as yet been no answer,
because the note card tacked to the right of the door indicated that these
indeed were Prof. Turgy K. Sigger's office hours. She could see the
light under the door and thought she had heard a groan. Just before she
decided to give up, slow feet approached from the opposite side, then
silence; with a dramatic turn of the knob, the door swung open.
"Was this trip really necessary?" asked Prof. Sigger, blinking and
brushing his oily, graying hair back into place.
"These are your office hours," Alona replied. She nervously smiled,
feeling the corners of her mouth twitch. Somewhere in the darkened
hall, a janitor coughed.
"All right," conceded Prof. Sigger. "Come in."
The carpet was smothered by leaning towers of textbooks. Papers lined
the left side of the desk, above which was a small note card which read
"To Be Graded." On the right side, the oak finish gleamed of the
mid-morning light piercing the Venetian blinds.
"You've come about your final project," Prof. Sigger stated.
"It's only mid-term," Alona reminded him.
"Oh yes, yes," continued Prof. Sigger, without conscious
embarrassment. "Mid-term grade. I think I have it here. Somewhere."
His hands disappeared into the left side of his desk.
"You told the class that we would get a C if we maintained that
Coca-Cola isn't a crypto-fascist conspiracy."
"Oh yes," said Prof. Sigger. "We were discussing social issues, as I
remember. I was quoting Marx and some little idiot brought up Rush
Limbaugh."
"That was me," Alona muttered.
"Oh yes, yes," Prof. Sigger continued. "What can I do for you?"
Alona stared blankly back. "You said you wanted to see me in your
office anytime before next Wednesday."
Prof. Sigger finally sighed, sinking a little in his chair.
"Did I say what for? I'm feeling a little low today," he said, hoping to
elicit a small display of feminine attention.
"Oh," came the succinct and neutral reply. Prof. Sigger sighed again.
"It was about my book report," continued Alona. "On..."
"Rush Limbaugh," interrupted Prof. Sigger.

"No."
"Coca-Cola?"
"No."
"I need to find my horoscope. I can't seem to keep track of anything
anymore." He leaned back in his chair and felt his eyes close. That's it!
he realized. That's why I asked her to my office! I have to find out if
she'll...
Somewhere in the pit of Sigger's abdomen, a latent piece of conscience
manifested itself as a stomach cramp. Sigger coughed and patted his
belly. Then something slightly lower than his abdomen began to draw
his attention. Yes, that was it. He closed his eyes for a moment to clear
his mind and focus on the art he had studied for years. With his
intentions firmly aligned within (and without), Sigger opened his eyes
and found himself no longer in his office but in a basement alcove.
Across the room sat a pimply faced teenager who was scratching his
scalp under long strawberry-blond hair.

5. Julia & Cecil the Cat, as mentioned in the title (above) "I've just one
step further from falling behind." - Brandy Daniels, "You"
"Did you ever have one of those days," inquired Julia of her cat, Cecil,
who lay in the crook of her arm and was pushing his head into the
fingers of Julia's right hand, "when you think you've noticed something
everyone else has missed?"
Cecil didn't respond directly, but instead rubbed the side of his cheeks
against the spine of Gravity's Rainbow which Julia held lopsidedly in
her left hand.
"Pynchon keeps bleating about the preterit, right?" Cecil, who began
licking his paw and washing his face, did not respond. "-and the elect
who are out to destroy them, but he's the one who's treating his
characters savagely. I mean, how can you go off on God for
malpractice when you treat your characters like you treat
cockroaches?" Cecil looked at her for a moment, and resumed washing.
"OK, listen to this: 'Nobody ever said a day has to be juggled into any
kind of sense at day's end.' I can see that.