I drove home after the meeting. I lived in what constituted Sawyer’s downtown, a few miles south of campus. A small distance made greater by the college’s fickle relationship to the town. The trustees had contributed some funds to a revitalization program launched by a young and hopeful mayor, now in his second term. A few blocks from me there was the new hotel, together with some restaurants and bars, mostly struggling; two had already opened and closed. Most faculty lived in a ring of reclaimed Victorians encircling campus or in the suburban sprawl on the north side of town, really bedroom communities for professional classes working in Cleveland or Akron. Colleagues often expressed surprise atmy choice of neighborhood, saying “Good for you” like I was doing charity work, living among the locals. But I liked knowing I wouldn’t run into colleagues every time I stepped outside; I didn’t want the job to define me, and I found the separation a comfort. It helped me imagine that my life meant more than work.
My apartment was in an old brick building, converted from a former bakery abandoned for decades. It was just three floors, an empty storefront on street level, and one unit above that; a guy in his late twenties lived there. He worked in Columbus and mostly stayed down there with his girlfriend. I had the impression he kept the apartment as an insurance policy, a tether to his previous life. On the top floor, above his, sat mine. The apartment was fine, nothing special. It could be nicer but I hadn’t done much with it. I ate my meals at a small table tucked into the kitchen. My bedroom was just a bed and a chair and dresser; my living room—a couch, a coffee table and end table, a bookcase with my records, which I hadn’t listened to in forever. The under-furnished aspect gave it a temporary feeling. I guess there was something disappointing about it. After the grad student hustle in New York, I thought moving anywhere else, I’d live like a king—but these felt like forgotten rooms set aside for a minor duke, at best.
The rest of the morning and afternoon crumbled away. I passed the time, or it passed me, but nothing much happened. I tried to catch up on reading for class, but couldn’t focus. Finally, I started getting ready. It wouldn’t kill me to make some effort—put on a good showing, like Colin said. I got dressed, undressed, tried again—jeans in different shades of black, a white Oxford, then a blue. Nothing looked terrible, but nothing looked great, either. I stared at myself in the mirror. I had a slouchy air about me—I wasnot at my best. My running years, my body held that vibrancy of purpose, but my marathon days were behind me. I hadn’t even set foot on a jogging trail in … how long? I’d lost the routine to the demands of grad school and kept thinking any day I’d pick it back up. Still, I wasn’t bad-looking, I knew that. But even at my most fit, I was never someone who inhabited my body with a lot of confidence, more like a sense of acceptance—this is what I have to work with. I leaned close to the mirror, pushing at the half-moon shadows under my eyes—I couldn’t get away with a bad night’s sleep as I had in my twenties. My dark irises and heavy eyebrows created the impression of a band across my face, like a nighttime intruder. I changed my shirt again, back to what I first had on, and pushed the unruly dark waves of my hair into place. Good enough. I checked my watch—it was still early, but I headed out.
I texted as I pulled up to Safie’s. She rented an apartment over a garage behind an old clapboard house with a kind of charming, cobbled-together appearance. She brought the same care to her home as she did to everything in her life. She’d painted the walls a soft pink. Yellow curtains pooled on the floorboards, the thrift-store sofa reupholstered in a green checkered print, paintings done by an ex hanging behind it. Safie’s landlords lived in front. Loren ran the Black Studies department and her husband, Eugene, was a sculptor. He welded giant abstract pieces that stood sentinel on the lawn, patinated rust mirroring the rough-barked trees. It was a humid night, one of those autumn days that gets warmer as it goes, summer reasserting itself one last time. I had the windows up and the AC on so I didn’t notice Safie until she was tapping at the window. I let her in.
“Sorry to make you wait,” she said. “You’re early.”
I pointed to the dashboard clock. “I’m on time.”
“On time for you is early. No Stephen tonight?”
“No Stephen. Why?”
“Everything okay there?”
“Of course.” I hadn’t thought to invite him, but that didn’t mean things weren’t okay. “We’re allowed to do separate activities.”
“Relax.” Safie smiled. “No one’s trying to curtail your freedoms.”
Safie had invited Priya, who was waiting when we arrived. Priya had just been hired into the department, teaching South Asian diasporic lit, and she bubbled with effort, as if she were still on the interview. She thanked Safie for the invitation, repeating it three or four times. Safie waved it off; she was the kind of person who includes the new kid and is gracious about it. Truthfully, I felt a little jealous—I had been the new kid last year. Sometimes Safie’s friendliness made me feel, maybe not replaceable, but not entirely special, either. Or it reminded me that I needed her in a way she didn’t need me. As we waited for Colin, Priya asked about my research. “You’re working on a book about serial killers?”
“Kind of,” I said. “Like—cultural discourses of gay sex and murder. Or that’s the idea.”
“That sounds fun.”
“I guess—if you’re into sex and murder.”
Priya laughed, but talking about my book stressed me out; with the tenure clock running down, I felt the pressure mounting. Sometimes I wanted to gay murder myself to get out of doing it.
Finally, Colin arrived, apologizing for getting caught up at work.
“We’re glad to see you,” Safie said, “but no one wants to hear about everything you accomplished today.”
Colin smirked. “Har-har.”
The stadium sat low-slung and sleek. A swooping walk funneled us toward the entrance. It was part of the new west side of campus; I never had reason to come this way.
“This is really nice,” I said. “I expected to be standing around in a field.”
“They use it for other things,” Colin said, “but they built it for soccer.”
“That seems random,” said Safie.
“Some loaded alum from the nineties decided Sawyer should have a real soccer team. He dumped a ton of money into it, so the College basically bought its way into Division II.” We went in, Colin leading us up the stands.
“Do this many people always come to watch?” Priya asked.
Colin explained that local families made up much of the crowd. “Northside,” he said—meaning families with money. He steered us up some steps toward the back of a middle section. “I like an aerial view,” he said. “Better for the big picture.” On either end of the field, each team had assembled in tight groupings, waiting to begin; Sawyer was down to our right. Colin talked about the previous season and the head coach, in his second year, poached from San Diego, apparently a coup.
The music playing over the sound system cut out and the start of play was announced. The teams hustled into formation and my eyes landed on Tyler, jersey number seventeen—I recalled it from the website. He took his position, jumping in place, warming up. A sharp whistle sliced the silence. A moment later, the opening kick—the ball shot out and the field erupted. I instantly lost track of Tyler in the frenzied play; I couldn’t follow him and also thegame, despite the announcers’ broadcast and Colin narrating beside me. All at once, everyone cheered; Colin jumped to his feet. Sawyer had scored.
The first half stretched on with no more points. Colin was getting worked up about the new health sciences school. The idea was to begin offering a few master’s programs, Sawyer’s firsts.
“The debate feels so precious,” Safie said.
“How do you mean?” Priya asked. I noticed that she had been asking questions all night but rarely offering opinions of her own. Earlier, Colin had explained the entire scoring system (as if it were confusing; you kick a ball into a net). Only after he finished did Priya mention, almost apologetically, that she had played in college.
