Keith Underwood threw on his threadbare suit. He didn’t have time to shower before coming in for class – damn plane from Vibora was late. He knew now that whenever he had a class, he would stay in the city.
There was a knock at the door. “Hold on, Margie,” he said, buttoning up his shirt. He looped the tie around his neck and opened the door. His research assistant stood there with a pile of papers in her hand. Not only was Margie his assistant, but also his secretary, supervisor of the four grad students under him, corrector of homework, and all-around helpful Gal Friday that most feminist women these days would never dare to be. “You’ll be late in three…two…”
“And then I have fifteen minutes to cross the quad and get my ass in that classroom. Damn, I wish I could get a teleporter.”
“You work for them; ask for one.”
“I don’t have the clearance.” He turned to his mirror and manipulated his tie. He never buttoned the top button, so he always had the look of being half-dressed. He personally liked the look, and since he was the dean of history, he could dress as he damn well pleased and get away with it.
Margie handed him his papers as she looked at the leather trappings of his alternate life. A leather kilt, in the Roman fashion, a pair of hard leather boots, and soft leather gloves lay across the chair. He took the papers and stuffed them in his briefcase. “Would you…?” He glanced at the leather.
“I’ll hang them up.”
“Thank you, Margie.”
“Don’t mention it. You have twelve minutes.”
Underwood was never a runner, but he could now sprint across the quad, waving to a few of his students as he sped by. He went into the history building, taking the stairs two at a time, to the third floor. Winded, he kept going, dashing down the maze of corridors, getting yelled at by one of the professors. Underwood refrained from flipping him off.
He skidded to a stop in front of room 313, took a few deep breaths to calm himself, and put his hand on the doorknob. After he calmed enough so that he knew he could speak without panting, he threw open the door.
World History 3, The Age of Technology, 1812 to 1945, sat quietly in the rows, looking up as he entered. “Thought I wouldn’t make it, didn’t you?” he said and grinned as he walked into the room. Some of them sighed and opened up their laptops, getting ready for class.
He opened up the briefcase and took out the papers. “Here’s your first essays. If you got a bad mark, you can redo it and give it back. Whoever did the essay on the uniforms of the Napoleonic wars – nice theme, but I wasn’t looking for a fashion article. Come and get them after class.” He picked up chalk. “Today, we start with the lead-up to the Great War…”
Underwood went on autopilot. He lectured on the names, places, dates, and everything else, as if he had done this so many times before – which he had. No one asked questions during the lecture, so he could let his mind wander.
He hoped Maggie wouldn’t see the blood on the leather, his own blood mixed with that of his enemies. He hoped that nobody really saw him as he dashed at his highest speed to his office. He hoped, again, that nobody would know him, nobody took pictures of him, nobody would see how he spent most of his days and nights, fighting crime.
The class finished, and he took questions. There weren’t many. If they read the material and paid attention to his lectures, his exams came directly from them. He glanced at his phone to see he had timed it just right as usual. “Office hours this week are tomorrow and Thursday if you need to speak with me about your papers.”
The young students – and a couple of older ones, too – came and got the papers. Some of them winced at seeing the grades. Although Margie had corrected the papers to his specifications, he knew that she erred on the conservative side, and would usually bring a grade down a notch when it was questionable. Margie had shown him the Napoleonic War Fashion essay and the two had a good chuckle before he put an F on it.
A couple of the students were standing outside the room when he stepped out. One of them was a big Latino who Underwood knew was on the football team and was probably used to getting free passes on his essays due to his linebacker ability. “How come you gave me a D?”
“Because the American Civil War has been done to death.” Underwood leaned in, “Not to mention I know you didn’t write this.”
“I got a C and I know this is at least B+ paper,” protested a girl.
“Come to my office.” He gave all of them a look. “All of you.”
They all followed him like baby ducklings to his office three buildings away. In the infinite wisdom of the administration, they put everyone who was an administrator in the same building. He didn’t have it as bad as, say, the dean of science, who had to go the lab at the south end of campus and needed a golf cart to get there.
After seeing everyone about their papers – which he told them to redo and he’d reconsider – Javier Salinas, the football player, came in and shut the door. Underwood raised an eyebrow.
“Look, You better fix my grade.”
Underwood slowly rose. “Or what?”
The punch came out of nowhere and hit him right in the hinge of his jaw. Underwood stumbled back, keeping his feet. A lesser man would be on the floor. A lesser man would have a broken jaw.
Since drinking the wine of the nine maidens, he was no longer a lesser man.
He stood up straight. He walked by him, threw open the door. “Get out.”
“You gonna fix my grade or what?”
“I’m going to fail you so don’t even come back to class.”
Javier did what any linebacker would do. He tackled Underwood, throwing him out of his office and into the suite, toppling him over the chair. He threw Javier up and over his head sending him upside down into the wall across from him. As he expected, someone came out of their office and screamed. Underwood got up and waited to see if Javier was going to get up.
He did. And he was pissed.
“Call someone!” Underwood yelled at Dr, MacKenzie. “And get back in your office!”
She turned around and slammed shut the door, locking it. The room was silent except for the breathing of the bull. “Javier, you on ‘roids or something?”
“Fuck you!” he screamed, his voice going up an octave, and he ran again at Underwood. Underwood did what he was meant to do, and stood utterly still, thinking, My body is stone, my blood is stone, I am granite.
Javier ran his head into Underwood’s stomach. The crack of Javier’s head hitting him and neck breaking echoed throughout the room. He crumpled to the floor.
Underwood stood and exhaled, the stone shaking from his body. “Shit.”
Javier was definitely going to be paralyzed. Underwood bent to the young man and touched his neck. He was breathing, shallowly.
Underwood hear the sirens, and saw that MacKenzie opened the door to peer outside after the silence. “I called the paramedics,” she said. “Is he…”
“He won’t be playing football anymore.”