Tales of an Adjunct, Part 2: This Isn’t Notre Dame!

As I round the corner with my Diet Coke and dining hall sub in hand, I notice a sliver of light emanating from under the slide library door. Thank God—Liz, the slide librarian, is finally here. I open the door and query, “Hello? Liz?” Without so much as a “hello,” “kiss my ass” or “have an apple,” Liz rants, “Someone broke into the cabinet and stole my camera. That was my camera. I bought it with my own money. Did you take it?” I shake my head no and cautiously step sideways, moving toward my office as she continues seething, “Well then, who took it? I want to know!”

With piercing, bulging eyes, throbbing jugular veins and a voice of vitriol, Liz points a bony finger and shouts, “Look! They tried to jimmy the lock and then pried the doors off the hinges. It had to be Ed. I know it. He wanted to take some slides of that piss-poor photorealist crap of his for some masturbatory artist-run gallery in Chicago.”

“I told him he couldn’t use it. Why does he think he can just take it? Why can’t he get his own equipment? I’m calling campus police. I’m pressing charges. I want him taken away in handcuffs. I’m lodging a complaint with the department chair. I want him censured. I’m tired of him thinking he can do whatever he wants. He is just an associate professor. Not da Vinci, not van Gogh, not Picasso, not the Lord Almighty.”

Then, in a red-faced rage, Liz sweeps away everything on her desk with her outstretched arm. Whoosh! Everything crashes to the floor—books, papers, files, slides, a plant, the desk lamp, a mug filled with tea, a framed photo, scissors and tape. Shit flies everywhere, littering a large swath of the ubiquitous mottled ecru–colored VCT tiles.

All I can think is what I learned about walking alone at night in Boston’s Kenmore Square as an undergraduate: “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact.” Then I start to panic. “How will I get the slides I need for class?” I look up to see her standing there—lips pursed, crazy-eyed, fists clenched, dressed in her 1970s-era leotard, broom skirt, craft fair jewelry with those ugly-ass beaded Minnetonka moccasins. I want to laugh, but I’m far too afraid.

Mincing toward my office, trying not to make any sudden moves, I offer a breezy, “OK. Well, I’ll be in my office eating my lunch. Need to get ready for class.” To which she yells back at me, “Go to hell!”

How long will it take for her to calm down before I can ask her to help me get my slides? Five minutes? Ten? I think I’ll give her 15. I hear her on the phone, presumably with campus police: “This an emergency. There’s been a robbery in the slide library.” After a brief pause, her voice rises. “I will not calm down. I know exactly who did this. I want you to go to his office and get my camera back. Arrest him. I expect you here in five minutes. I’ve been robbed!” She slams down the phone, picks it back up and slams it down repeatedly.

Ugh. I need those slides. Is Liz going to strike me if I ask for them? I’m staring at the womb-colored office walls when it finally hits me what color it is—Mountbatten Pink. That’s it. Why Mountbatten Pink? Why reference the British Royal Navy? I mean, what are you trying to camouflage? Also, why reference Lord Mountbatten? The IRA assassinated him. Is that symbolic? Some political statement?

The only good thing about my office is the private bathroom. Really. I can’t believe there is a private bathroom in this building. It probably exists because there was only one female faculty member in the art department—again, the art historian. Did the men want to provide a private bathroom thinking they were being gallant? Or, more likely, they didn’t want any feminine products in the men’s faculty bathroom.

At my chunky wooden desk, I gobble down the sandwich as quickly as possible as to finish getting ready to teach class. My stomach is in nervous knots. Why did I say I’d teach four art history classes for $1,500 a pop this semester? Oh yeah. I need money, a job and experience.

I take the last bite of my sandwich and notice the time. I’m desperate for those slides. I need to put on my big-girl panties and talk to Liz. My mind races, and I wonder, “It has been at least 15 minutes, right?” I take a deep breath, get up and walk back into the slide library. Liz has cleaned the debris off the floor and now has her head down, masking slides on the light box.

“Excuse me, Liz. Could you help me? What is the procedure for checking out slides? Could you tell me if all the Janson text has slides made?”

She looks up at me sweetly, like nothing had happened, and says, “Here is a box of pink cardboard squares. Pink is your color. When you take a slide, replace it with the pink cardboard square. That way, I’ll know who checked out the slide in case you forget to return it or someone else needs it. When you finish the slides, return them to this box, and I will return them to their rack. The Janson text does have slides, but they are interspersed in the collection. So, you’ll need to find them by culture, date and media. Ancient Western art is over there, then winds around the room chronologically.”

“OK. Thanks for your help.” As I go to the ancient section, I hear Liz say under her breath, “I’ll get that, Ed.” I gather about four saltine sleeves’ worth of slides and quietly head back into my office. Note to self: don’t fuck with Liz.

I slam the slides into the carousels just as fast as I can. Shit. And how do I pronounce this Mesopotamian site? I will leave it out of the lecture. As I reach over for a swig of my Diet Coke, I knock the slide carousels onto the floor. They make a loud clatter like a pile of dishes. The slides go everywhere—under the desk, in the trash, under the couch. Shit. Shit. Shit. It is a half hour before class. I scoop up the slides, reorder them and shove them back in the carousel as quickly as possible. The only time I’ve moved faster was when tampons spilled from my purse onto the conference table at the faculty meeting last week.

Then, it hits me. I feel nauseated. It better not be some rancid mayo on that D-hall turkey sub, or I will be cross. Oh, no. I’m overwhelmed. I am going to puke. Hand over mouth, I push open the bathroom door, fall to my knees and retch violently. I rise, mouth agape, and stare into the mirror. My face looks like Matisse’s “Lady With Green Stripe.” Cleaning my face with soap and water with the rough, bark-like institutional brown paper towels, I try to pull myself together.

I grab the carousels and graded quizzes and sprint to the auditorium. As I hand off the carousels to the work-study student in the projection booth, many students are already in their seats. Approaching the podium, I still feel nauseated and wonder if I can make it through the lecture. I welcome the class, take attendance (why is everyone named Megan?) and pass out the quizzes. They are going to go ape shit about their grades. “Please see me if you have any questions. Office hours are Mondays and Wednesdays between 11 and 12 and 3 and 4. I’m happy to review the test and assign extra credit if anyone needs it.”

Then out of the sea of faces, a student raises her hand.

“Yes, Megan?” I literally guessed the name.

Angrily she says, “Why are you grading us so hard? This isn’t Notre Dame!”

I want to lose my shit and answer, “Why don’t you study? You should have learned to find Rome on a map in high school.” Instead, I calmly say, “I teach the same material and grade accordingly, no matter the university. It is important to remember that when you graduate and start a new job, your boss is never going to say, ‘Oh, it is OK that you did your work poorly; I know you didn’t go to Notre Dame.’ ”

She is not happy with that answer and lets out an exasperated loud huff. She has that Liz “I will fuck you up later” look. I know. I know. It was a snarky answer. I couldn’t help it. Really. It was true. Some students couldn’t even find Europe on the map section of the quiz.

The lecture commences, and I fight back the urge to vomit.