Worth Waiting

Shit happens, and sometimes, produces a rose. Two strangers share a dreadful experience and fall in love. It happens. I hope you enjoy this small tale. Jb7

Guy Foster was a talented weaver/fabric designer, with samples of his work on display in collections around the world. Up until his wife had passed away at a much too early age, he had been a regular in both invitational and juried art shows. With her passing, he had lost his muse and had turned from producing art to teaching others how. A good teacher, popular with students, he soon found himself involved with students' activities beyond the classroom.

Already on track for an administrative post, the major event which pushed/vaulted him into the University Administration was a student strike protesting random searches of student vehicles legally parked on campus. Several students had taken over the Arts Center building and were requesting face to face talks with the President of the University. Calling them hooligans, the President not only refused to acknowledge them, but had ordered campus security to clear the building.

Hearing this, fearing for the safety of the students involved, and for the irreplaceable art works in the building, Guy grabbed a bull horn from one of the security officers and approached the building, identifying himself and asking to talk to someone who could negotiate for the students. As he started up the short flight of steps into the building, the main entrance doors opened and a male student came out to greet him.

Guy quickly apprised him of the President's stance and orders. He promised to advocate for the students if they left promptly and peacefully. He had just finished speaking when campus security shot a tear gas cannister at the entrance. With a kick which would have netted him a job with either a pro football or soccer team, Guy returned the cannister halfway to the police line.

Without considering what he was saying, Guy lifted the bull horn to his mouth and, for all the world to hear, shouted, "Who the fuck did that? What the fuck are you people thinking? Get the fuck away from here! Right now! I'm assuming authority here; these student's are my responsibility and you are not needed!"

He saw the campus cops back off and group in the parking lot across the street from the Art Center. When he turned back to the entrance the student had retreated inside the building and disappeared. He turned back to say something to the security team and saw one of them approaching him, hands held high, carrying a walkie talkie. The officer stopped at the bottom of the steps. "President deGraaf wants to speak with you," he stated, holding out the radio.

Guy motioned the officer to come closer. He had seen the TV cameras from the local TV station , and felt the administration would not want to be seen as unreasonable in the situation. The popular professor had the officer show him how to use the hand held radio, then took it and spoke, "Guy Foster here."

"Foster, you asshole! Do you know what you're doing? Giving those hooligans assistance!"

"Excuse me, sir. Those hooligans, as you call them, have public sympathy on their side. Besides that, they are sitting on approximately two million dollars worth of irreplaceable art works, which if damaged in the melee caused by campus security reclaiming the building forcefully, will be essentially uninsured. They also happen to be right; the searches are illegal."

"So are their actions! What do you mean, the art works would not be insured?"

"The campus police are not a government force. They are one group of civilians, even though employed by the University, owners of the property, attempting to wrest control of a property from another group of private citizens, who, in this case, are customers of the owner. Courts have recently supported the contention by insurance companies that this meets the criteria for civil strife, and, if it gets violent, a riot, exempting insurance companies from liability for damages."

"Horseshit!" the President exploded. He recalled reading about that decision in the Higher Education Journal recently, about a similar situation in NYC. "Can you really get those kids out of there?"

"I'll need to guarantee them a real opportunity to present their grievances and have them addressed."

"Shit, I'm getting too old for this job," quietly snorted the 60-year old official. Guy could hear the forced exhale of breath as the President reached his decision. "OK, I'm appointing you as staff to the Dean of Student Services, effective immediately. Do what you have to do, but get them out of that building, and back to class."

"Very well, sir. First will be to remove the security personnel. You need to do that."

"As we speak," the President replied. Guy looked across to the parking lot as he handed the radio back. The campus police were pulling out of the parking lot. When they had all gone, he turned and banged on the door. It opened immediately.

That had been five years ago. Now he was Dean of Students, in line to replace the President when he retired in two years. The school was a small, prestigious school in a medium sized Midwest city.

They offered a five year BA program, requiring a scholastic year abroad during the fourth and fifth years. While the students could fit the year abroad in however they wanted, the most popular time was the second semester of the fourth year, with the summer free in the country of choice. They would then complete the year of study the next fall, and finish up the second semester of the fifth year back on campus.

The students could choose to study in Europe, Japan, Brazil, Argentina, or, with the proper background in Sciences, Antarctica. Admission to the study abroad program w as highly competitive. This year there had been over 500 applicants for 50 available slots.

Students were selected by a joint committee of faculty and students. The committee comprised ten students who had just completed their study abroad, and eight faculty, representing the various disciplines the University offered as major courses of study, along with a member from the University Curriculum Committee, and Guy, the committee chairperson.

Guy hurried through the early January snow to the first meeting of the selection committee. He had seen the member list. All the students were at the top of their college's list, academically and in degree of involvement with the school. Over their academic career, he had met and worked with all of them.

Similarly, he knew all the faculty members, with the exception of the new rep from the curriculum committee, whom he knew by reputation, and a brand new faculty member from the College of Fine Arts–a Phil someone. There had been a message on his voice mail about the change, but the last name had been slurred so he didn't get it.

As he approached the Student Union, where the meeting was to be held, he noticed a tall, attractive, dark haired woman about his own age looking at a slip of paper and looking around at the campus buildings. Making a deductive leap, he approached her from behind. About a yard from her, he softly asked, "Excuse me. Would you be Dr. Phil from the Art Department?"

She gave a small squeek as she spun around. "Uh, yes, I'm Phyllis Everett, without the doctor. Could you tell me which is the Student Union? I'm due at a meeting ten minutes ago."

"Don't worry; so am I, and I'm the chairperson, Guy Foster. I could have sworn Steffan said Dr. Phil." He pointed at one of the buildings and began to walk. She fell in along side him.

"He's just being generous. I'm all done except for the dissertation, which has been sitting on my chairman's desk for the past year."

"Personal or professional?" he asked as he opened the door to the Union.

"What?" she replied, giving him a quizzical look.

"It's been my observation that, once a dissertation is finalized, if it's not published promptly, there is either a problem between the candidate and people on his committee, or they don't like the results. Usually that's because it conflicts or challenges their publicly stated opinions." He pointed to an open door. "Here we are."

The meeting broke up at five. They had paired faculty and student members, discussed criteria for selecting the foreign study students, and distributed the applications randomly among the pairs. Each pair had fifty-one or -two apps, from which they had to choose eight to present to the committee. A date in late February was chosen to meet for the first round.

As they were getting their stuff together to leave, Guy spoke, "Dr. Everett, could I see you for a moment?" She lingered, and when the room was empty, approached him. "I just wanted to apologize in case it seemed like I was prying, or over stepping any boundaries."

"Please, call me Phyllis or Phyll. There wasn't any offense. You left out the third common reason, that it's not worth defending. My chairman hasn't given me any feedback, nor given the other members of my committee their copies. Steffan is my distant member and wasn't aware that it was done until I called him for a job last month."

"Last month? I wasn't aware..."

"Probably not. I called to see if he knew of any vacancies in Art History. It happened that Lil Pedersen, whom I'm replacing for the balance of the year, had learned that morning that she's pregnant. Because of her problems in the past, he said, she's been ordered off her feet until she delivers. Not totally, but enough to preclude teaching.

"It was pure chance I happened to call that day. And since it is only a half year, non-tenured instructorship, he didn't think it necessary to go the committee route."

"You called asking about vacancies anywhere. Does that mean there's no Mr. Everett?"

"Very good, Guy," she said with a smile. "No, not any more." Guy cocked his head in a silent question. "Married right out of college. He was a local college football hero, and got a job selling insurance and IRA's. I started on my doctorate right away.

"A few weeks before our third anniversary, I came home from class early one day, and surprised him in bed with one of his customers. One similarly equipped in the groin."

She shook her head, a puzzled expression on her face. "He couldn't understand why I was upset; after all, he said, he wasn't screwing another woman."

Guy laughed. "I'm sorry; it's not really funny, but it is laughable."

Phyll just nodded. "It's okay. It's over and dealt with. I wish all my problems were as easy to deal with." She put her coat on and picked up her bag and briefcase. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to burden you with my woes, but if you have any advice on how to bust loose my chairman..."

"You got time for a cup of coffee?"

"Won't Mrs Foster be upset if you're late for dinner?"

"There is no Mrs Foster in my family. My mother was a single mother who gave me my father's last name, and my wife died of ovarian cancer nearly seven years ago."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stir up painful memories. Was she ill long?"

"Two months. It was fast, but not fast enough. There was a lot of pain, and doctors don't handle pain well. At least, they didn't then."

"Children, or anyone else to be home for?"

"No. Why?"

"Would you like to join me for dinner? I make a killer frittata. Add some salad and some decent bread and wine, and, voila, dinner."

"Best offer I've had all week. I'll meet you...damn! Where do you live? I probably won't be able to leave right away to follow you."

She wrote down her address and gave it to him. He grinned when he saw it. He had lived in the same complex when he first came to the city, he told her. "The Capitol wine shop, just a block down Oak Lane is one of the best in the city. I'll stop and get some wine. Suggestions?"

"Something semi-dry. A Zinfandel, either color, would be good. And maybe an inexpensive ice wine for dessert, if you can find one."

"Fine. See you at your place in, say, half, three-quarters of an hour?"

"Great. See you then," she replied, with a warm smile.

The couple were sitting facing each other, on opposite ends of the sofa, in the living room, sipping on the ice Reisling. The lights were on low. "So," she asked, "do you have any suggestions?"

"Tell me more about the problem. Do you think it's professional, or is there some personal problem?"

"Probably a bit of both. My research supports some of my chairman's public positions, but refutes a lot more. He knew about that from the beginning, and said it wouldn't be a problem.

"The personal part...The day after I caught my husband and his client together, I went to Harry, my chair, and told him I needed to take some time off. He asked why, and when I started to tell him, I broke down and began to cry. I was almost hysterical.

"He came around to hold me and as I calmed down, he started to kiss me. When I noticed his hands in my blouse and down the back of my slacks, I pushed him away. I had to fight him off and started to scream to get him to back away. I've heard it's not uncommon, especially for woman candidates, but... I haven't been alone with him since; nearly five years. He's refusing to budge until we talk one on one."

"What about charging him with...

"Sexual harassment? I thought about it. I consulted a lawyer, but since there were no witnesses, it becomes 'he said, she said.' He could claim I misinterpreted his actions because of my emotional state."

"What do the other members say?"

"They sympathize, but he's the chair and, no matter why, what he says, goes. I'm almost ready to chuck it and start over somewhere else."

"Is that a real option?"

"Remote, but..." The sound of breaking glass came from the bedroom. "What..."

Guy held his finger over his mouth, quieting her. "Most of these units have grills over the windows..." he whispered.

"Yes," she whispered back, "nobody can get in. What should..."

"Call 911 and report an attempt to break in." Guy saw a shadow run past the front window. A few seconds later the front door knob was tried. Guy steered Phyll to the kitchen to make her call. He saw a french rolling pin on the center island and grabbed it on his way back to the front door.

He heard the intruder trying to open the door and positioned himself behind it. Barely a second later, he heard the intruder throw himself against the door, and the casing crack. Slowly, the door opened

The first thing that became visible was the hunting knife. As soon as the burglar's wrist appeared, Guy smashed the rolling pin down on it, breaking the perp's wrist and thumb. Before the intruder could react, Guy thrust the rolling pin into his solar plexus, and then down on his skull when the intruder doubled over in pain.

It seemed he had no sooner hit the floor when a voice from the dark was ordering Guy to drop the rolling pin. He looked out the open door and saw a police patrol car in the driveway. The two officers were in the house in seconds, and finished subduing the burglar. As soon as they pulled him to his feet, Phyll gasped.

"OMiGod!" She gave a short snorting laugh. "Guy, meet my dissertation chairman, Dr Harry Simmons."

She confronted the prisoner. "What the hell did you think you were going to do? You'd need more than that knife to get within an arms length of me, you shit!" she screamed, sounding nearly hysterical.

"Bitch!" he screamed back. "Don't think I'm done; I'll be back to finish this!"

"You heard him, Officers. Make sure you lose the keys to those handcuffs," Phyll said to the policemen. Guy put his arm around her shoulder and led her back into the living room as the police took her would-be attacker away. They had hardly pulled away when a forensics team showed up to document the damage he had caused.

As they went about their investigation, Guy said, "You can't stay here tonight. I can offer you a choice of guest rooms."

"Thank you. I'll just need to grab some clothes and a toothbrush."

While Phyll gathered her clothes, Guy called the super/agent for the complex. It was the same person he had known when he lived there on first coming to town. "Sal, This is Guy Foster; how are you...Good to hear that. Say hello to Maria for me.

"Sal, I was visiting Phyllis Everett this evening and there was a bit of a ruckus. She needs a window repaired and her front door will probably need to be replaced...Yeah, someone broke in while we were here. The police have him in custody...You're kidding! Wait, you'd better tell her. She might think I have some ulterior motives." Phyll heard Sal's laugh over the phone as she took it from Guy.

"Mr Lorenzo, this is Phyllis Everett. Is there a problem?"

"Yes, I understand about insurance and a special order for the door. How long...What! Ten days–business days; so two weeks. Just where do you suggest I sleep? Will your insurance cover my motel bill...I didn't think so. Do you rebate the rent while my apartment is unavailable...At least there's that. How long...two months, as a credit. I see. Thank you, Mr Lorenzo. Yes, I'm sure you want to help." She hung up the phone and walked back to the living room.

She plopped down to sit on the sofa, her head in her hands. Guy sat beside her and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side. "Cheer up; it could be worse."

"Really? How?"

"You might not have a place to stay."

She looked at him and smiled briefly. "I can't impose on you like that, not for two weeks."

"You're not imposing; I offered. And you can stay two weeks or two months, however long it takes, or as long as you can stand it." He stood and pulled her to her feet.

"Leave your car. We'll get it tomorrow when we pick up the rest of your clothes. There'll be a cop out front until they board up the door and window. You'll be able to get in through the back. You also better grab your garage door remote.

"You know, there is an upside to all of this. Your problem with your dissertation being blocked is solved," he said, grinning.

Guy grabbed Phyll's bag from the back seat of his roadster and led her to the side door of his four bedroom ranch style home. "You can sleep in either the football room or the hockey room. The hockey room is courtesy of my fourteen year-old niece who is a Black Hawks fan. The football room is by my sixteen year-old nephew, who is a fan of the Dallas Cowboys," he said, opening the door, "Cheerleaders." Phyll laughed, taking in the flesh filled posters covering the walls.

"It's good to know some things don't change." she said with a smile.

Guy smiled back. "The Black Hawk room is right here; bathroom's across the hall."

"Mmm, good. Just being near that man makes me want a shower."

"Before you yield to that temptation, let me show you something." he led her to his room, furnished with a king sized bed and decorated in dark Danish Modern decor, but still exuding a welcoming atmosphere. He led her to his bathroom.

Inside, he showed her his surround shower with jets from floor to ceiling in each corner of the hexagonal enclosure, plus an overhead, eight inch diameter super soaker shower head. "Guaranteed to get you clean and feeling refreshed," he said, turning on the water. In a matter of seconds, the room was filled with steam.

"Wow! I bet your girl friends really enjoy that."

"Probably, if there had been any."

"Please don't tell me you're..."

He grinned. "No, I'm not gay. I'm just not in the habit of bringing casual dates here. I haven't been seriously involved with anyone since...Family and professional friends who have used it have given it rave reviews. I can hardly get Kelly, my niece, out of it."

"I feel honored, and I will accept your very kind invitation." She saw something unexpected, based on her brief experience with the dynamic University official, a shy smile. Suddenly flustered, she asked, "What?"