Calico College today (My classroom was the third window on the right.)
When I was preaching in the Missouri Ozarks, I sometimes went by “Brother Onesimus Bulfinch”; when I told fortunes down in Eureka Springs, I called myself the “Mystic Mentula”; and when I taught English at the University of Arkansas satellite campus outside of Calico Rock, my plaque on the door read “Professor Odysseus Bulfinch.” (The name of the college was Calico Rock-Arkansas Branch, but everybody called it Calico College.)
I know what you’re thinking: “There’s no way in hell you got a PhD in English, Otis Bulfinch; I don’t care what you call yourself.” It’s true. I didn’t have a PhD. I didn’t even have a GED. But teaching English is not like teaching, say, engineering or nursing: You have to know something to teach stuff like that. But for English, you just have to be able to read out loud in your own language, and that I could do.
It all started when I was hard up for cash money, having lost what little I had in an ill-starred game of pool. The fellow who hustled me put the cue stick back on the wall and said, “You seem to be reasonably well-spoken; better’n me, anyhow. You should teach adjunct over at Calico College.”
I said, “Really? What is ad junk? Something like TV commercials?”
And he said, “No—it’s adjunct. Who the hell knows what it means, but it don’t matter. They will need somebody to teach at night and sometimes on weekends.”
I said, “Really?”
And he said, “Yes. All you gotta do is put on a bow tie and a blazer with some khaki trousers and penny loafers—you can get all that at the Second Chance Thrift Store—and the college’ll pay you $300 a month to teach stories.”
I said, “Really?”
And he said, “Yes. Here’s the number to call.” He produced a card from somewhere.
“How do you know so much about this?” I asked.
And he said, “Because I been doing it myself. But now that I took your money, I can go post bail for my brother over in Tahlequah; we’re goin’ to open a liquor store on the state line. They’re gonna need somebody to take my place. Might as well be you. Here: I even got some coupons for that thrift store. I won’t be needin’ ’em now.”
I said, “Thank you,” and then I thought to ask, “Did you have to go through an interview or anything?”
“Yes, I did. Just remember these three words: Subversion, diversity, and patriarchy. They’re big words, but they’ll work like ‘open sesame’ did for old Ali Baba. I learned ’em from another hustler. He said they pretty much sum up all literary criticism in the last twenty years.”
“But what do they mean?”
“Who knows? All you gotta do is say ’em. Nobody cares what they mean.”
“But what is literary criticism? I couldn’t write a book, at least not a book anybody would care to read; why would I criticize somebody else’s book?”
“That’s not what it means. ‘Literary criticism’ is how you make up what a story means. A story can mean whatever you want it to.”
I said, “Really?”
And he said, “Yes. Just throw those three words around, and you’ll be in like Flynn. Let me hear you say ’em.”
“Uh . . . subversion, diversity, and patriotism.”
“God, no! If you say ‘patriotism,’ you’ll be out on your ass. English teachers hate patriotism!”
I said, “Really?”
And he said, “Yes. The word is ‘patriarchy.’”
“Got it; thanks. By the way, were there girls in your class?” I asked.
“There’s always girls,” he said and gave me a wink.
Dr. Patty Watts (powder-blue muumuu, armpit hair, a gray-green coil of roped hair like a mermaid pooped on her head) called me in for my interview. She told me she was the “chair” of the department. Why she wasn’t called the “desk” or the “filing cabinet” of the department, I still don’t know. She was built more like a filing cabinet. She wore a necklace made of seashells that somewhat covered the upper barrens of her bodice, thank God. I stuck out my hand and said, “Good morning, madam chair; I’m Odysseus Bulfinch, PhD,” and she smiled like a cat yawning and said, “So nice to meet you. Are you any relation to Atticus Finch?” I thought, “Uh-oh. This is a joke I’m clearly supposed to get,” so I chortled like a cherub half-witted and high and said, “Old subversive, diverse, patriarchal Great-Uncle Atticus—ha, ha!” She thought I understood and, what’s more, appreciated her wit, so she gave me the job. Good thing, too, because I shot the whole literary criticism wad on Atticus Finch and had nothing else in the chamber for the remainder of the interview. I learned later she had just gotten the pool hustler’s “I quit” letter and was pretty desperate for someone, anyone, to take the class.
So, it came to pass that I taught a three-hour class on literature every Thursday night, and I was plumb pleased because there were girls everywhere coming and going in the parking lot and not a few in my classroom. I had to buy me some more cheap clothes, but let me tell you, partner, that pool shark gave a lot more than he got.