“I didn’t think you wanted me to.” He unlocked the front door, and she followed him in.

“You hurt my feelings,” she said.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“No, I was being dumb.” She put her hand on his hip. Tentative. This would be the test. If he shrugged her off, then she was barking up the wrong tree. “Can we go in the bedroom?”

“Sure.”

Gotcha.

He stood stiffly, let her unzip him, strip him clean. She unbuttoned her blouse, wriggled out of her too tight jeans, white breasts spilling over a red lace bra. She peeled off thong panties. They moved to the bed and didn’t talk.

When she was on top of him, Morgan tilted his head back into the pillow, closed his eyes. Ginny ground into him, bit her lower lip hard. Even if Morgan never helped her writing career, she still liked this part. Liked it a lot.

seventeen

Harold Jenks slumped at the bar between his new classmates Timothy Lancaster III and Wayne DelPrego. They’d just started their fourth pitcher of beer.

When class had ended and Morgan had walked out, Jenks had just stood there with his balls in his hand. His first poem hadn’t gone over so well, so he’d really tried to sell this one, put everything into it. Make it one righteous, kick-ass performance. But by the time he’d finished reading, he’d found himself in a roomful of truly terrified white people.

Most of the class had filed out, carefully not making eye contact. But Wayne DelPrego had approached him, shaking his head, a smart-ass grin crooked on his face.

“Christ Almighty,” DelPrego said. “You’ve either got some jumbo, supersized testicles or you’re high.”

Jenks told DelPrego to fuck his mother.

“Take it easy, man,” DelPrego said. “The poetry thing’s a tough gig. Let me buy you a beer. Timothy and I get one after every workshop.”

Jenks thought briefly about busting DelPrego in the mouth, but decided a beer would be more helpful. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t even noon.

Time flew by at the bar, and Jenks found himself deep in meaningless conversation with Lancaster and DelPrego.

“Have you seen the statistics on college binge drinking?” Lancaster held his beer mug up for inspection, wiped a smudge clean with his napkin. “This is dangerously stereotypical behavior we’re engaging in.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jenks said. “Well, you just ended your sentence with a preposition.” Dr. Grayson had just drilled him on prepositions yesterday in the Writing Lab. She was one hard-core bitch.

“Touché.” Lancaster sipped beer, but it had gotten warm. He frowned, pushed the mug away.

“Shit,” DelPrego said. “After Morgan’s class, we need a few belts. That guy doesn’t like anything.”

“I hear that.” Lancaster had told Jenks his poem amounted to little more than predictable rhyme and juvenile posturing. No imagery, little attention to the intricacies of language. Jenks wasn’t totally sure he knew what that meant, but he was sure it wasn’t good. But at least Lancaster hadn’t walked out of class looking like he was about to puke.

This shit was going to be harder than he thought.

“Yes, well, he wasn’t totally without a point,” Lancaster said. He waved the bartender over. “Take this away,” he said, indicating the beer mug. “Bring me a chardonnay please.”

The big bartender scowled down at him. “This ain’t exactly a chardonnay-type place.”

Jenks chuckled. It was true. The place was pretty rough and backwoodsy. A long unpainted pine bar, mismatched stools, seats, and tables. DelPrego had told Jenks that the noise coming out of the jukebox was some shit called Vince Gill. But the place had pool tables and cold beer, and right now that was enough. DelPrego had convinced Jenks and Lancaster to enter the place on the grounds the drinks were cheap.

“You don’t like my rhymes?” Jenks asked Lancaster.

“Just a second, Sherman.” Lancaster turned back to the bartender. “Do you have any wine at all?”

The bartender bent behind the bar, came back up with a screw-cap jug the size of a Volkswagen, half-full. “This. It’s red.”

“Dear God. No, I can’t drink that. Just a glass of water with lemon.”

The bartender rolled his eyes and walked away. It didn’t look like he was in any hurry to bring Lancaster his water.

Jenks tapped Lancaster’s shoulder. “I asked you a question.”

Lancaster sighed. “Frankly, I didn’t care for it. Perhaps I’m too traditional.”

“Fuck you, man.”

DelPrego snickered.

“Fuck you too,” Jenks said.

“That’s another thing,” Lancaster said. “You don’t seem to get the idea of the workshop. Perhaps they do it differently where you’re from. But essentially, we’re supposed to say whatever we think about the work. You’re not supposed to take it personally. I mean it’s about focusing on the work, not the person.”

“Fuck you anyway.”

“Like you can talk, Timothy,” DelPrego said. “Professor Morgan didn’t like your shit either. Or mine for that matter. He hates us, man.”

Jenks slapped the bar with an open palm. “That’s what I’m talking ’bout. That motherfucker can’t be pleased about nothing. Why try? He ain’t going to like it anyway.”

“We just have to tune in to his aesthetic,” Lancaster said.

“Right now I’m just going to tune in to this.” DelPrego gulped beer.

“Okay,” Jenks said. “You know all about it, then explain this shit to me.”

“I’ll try,” Lancaster said. “Poetry is like, it’s like…” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together like he was trying to pluck the definition of poetry out of midair. “Poetry is reminding you about truths you forgot you already knew. A poem doesn’t tell us something, it shows us. It doesn’t reflect an experience. A poem is its own experience.”

“I don’t understand one fucking thing you’re saying.”

“Let’s all get some guns and go to Mexico,” DelPrego said. “Let’s get whores.”

“Yes, that sounds constructive,” Lancaster said.

“How would you cats like to earn a few extra dollars?” asked Jenks. He realized he was feeling a bit drunk himself but didn’t care. He drained his mug.

“Who you want us to kill?” DelPrego said.

Jenks didn’t laugh. “I’m serious. Can you boys be tough? Can we be tight?”

Lancaster sighed. “I think you’re both already tight.”

“Hey, I ain’t so fucked up I don’t know what I’m talking about. You guys got enough money? Is that it? You’re so up to your asses in greenbacks that you don’t need any more?”

“Is it something illegal?” asked DelPrego. “I mean, I don’t care. I just want to know.”

“Shit, I ain’t saying nothing until I knew we’re tight. This kinda shit get fucked up quick if it ain’t handled by guys that don’t have trust. Now, when I see we tight, I’ll let you know. But I’m thinking we can be tight.”

“Is there some sort of written exam for this?” Lancaster asked. “How does one go about becoming tight?”

“I’ll tell you when it happens.”

Jenks still wasn’t sure about these two, but they seemed to be regular guys. They just wanted to find out how to get through school, how to get ahead, how to keep a roof over their heads and once in a while find some pussy. Lancaster was a little strange and maybe too smart for his own damn good, but he didn’t talk down to Jenks. He didn’t patronize. A word he got from Grayson.

Patronize.

“We want you sons a bitches out of here right now. Just about had enough of listening to your bullshit.”

The three of them spun on their barstools, looked into the glassy eyes of two gigantic rednecks. They had full, thick beards, bellies hanging over big belt buckles. One wore a Sooners cap. The other had a buzz cut and a faded Marine Corps tattoo on his massive upper arm. They both held pool cues.

A fresh cigarette dangled from Sooner Cap’s mouth. It bobbed up and down as he talked. “We don’t want your kind in here. So get the hell out right now.”