colors. Red = 1 Blue=1 Purple=? Weedeman waited. Another student was catching on. “Three?” “Correct.” More colors followed, continuing the pattern. Then finally the black slide. The silence held. Weedeman finally broke it. “ Infinite. Or else zero.” I pulled the black slide out. White light Each Tuesday he watched our class, waiting until my line of reasoning eluded the others. Only when my questions dropped through dead air, would Jeremy with no hint of superiority, begin to answer. He never failed me flooded over my reach for the next sequence. “ Zero ,” Weedeman said quietly. I hadn’t though of that. On to a rc h ite c tu ra l in f lu en ce s , guesses about which cultures preceded, which influenced, other. All the students did fairly well on the earlier, more obvious structures, but every time we had to sequence more than three designs, the burden of answering fell to Weedeman. And it fell heavily. Silence would fill with curiosity until Jeremy consented to break it. As I had anticipated, a few students were catching on to our grudge match. Their glances between Jeremy and me fell Thto the easy rhythm of spectators at a tennis match. To forestall such an impasse, I had set aside one of the test’s most complex progressions. I jumped ahead. A hard-edged geometric flashed on the screen, followed by the same design turned on its side with negative color values substituted. The two designs were shown side by side. A new pattern followed, floating above four possible adaptations. Jeremy cast his first curious glance backward. I thought he had begun to hesitate, but when he released the answer, allowing it to rise like a bubble to the top of the silence, I stared. Could he have sensed the jump forward, psyched out the gist of the Sheffield? The next few sequences compounded complexities—size, viewer-perspective, pattern, proportion. Eventually Jeremy let himself answer without waiting. I was grateful, but the others hated it. When his replies got spottier and occasionally incorrect, I had had enough. Following the focused haze of the projector light, the brilliant overheads left us blinded. “Tha-tha-tha that’s all folks.” I smiled. They simply stared at me. “ I’m sure you’ve all figured out by now, this was a survey of abstract thinking. And abstract thinking is. . . ” “ Similarities and differences,” several voices parroted. “ Precisely,” I stressed my approval. “So ends Composition 101.” I had let them off early. The uproar of creaking desks applauded my decision. “ Hand in your term papers. Have a good summer. Oh, and can somebody please help me carry this contraption back to the office?” Several had already made the door. They would be free when they walked through it. Nobody wanted to put in another minute. Yet when that resigned nasal, “ I’ ll do it,” broke the tension, the intake of breath was audible. We all stared. No one wanted to admit that Jeremy should not do it, that Jeremy was crippled, that he dropped things. “ Thanks Jeremy.” The rush splattered through the narrow doorway. At last, I thought, I’d get a one-to-one with him, get a sense of him personally, even get in a word of encouragement. I packed up the equipment. Jeremy pulled away. I thought how much it would hurt him to try to take that hook out, and I could not try because, after all, he was probably right. We were at the office. I had difficulty stared silently out the window. I took care to hand him the Sheffield’s box, getting my own grip around the overhead. We walked halfway to the office in silence. I plunged with my opener. “ How many q u a r te rs u n t i l y o u ’ re done Jeremy?” “Two.” “ Plan to go on? Go to the University?” “ No.” “What’ re you going to do?” “Oh.” He tripped over a cord that dangled from the carton, pulled it up. “ Probably work in a factory.” I tried to keep the shock from my voice. “A factory, huh? That interests you, working in a factory?” “ No.” The cord slipped again. He pulled it up. “ No, but, well, that’s just what happens for people like me.” He had said it. A statement as simple as his bored brilliance on the Sheffield. He was not looking at me, but I knew the dim, bottomless depths that must hide in his eyes. I tried to find words to disagree, but immediately gave up. Jeremy Weedeman, Lesson Plan Thief, had swum deeply into the nature of things and surfaced biting this hook. His huge wise jaw had clamped onto a truth, and it had snagged into him for so long it was part of the hinge. I could feel all my teacherliness, my stupid dedication and optimism, being getting the key into the lock. We stepped inside. Jeremy perched the Sheffield’s box on the edge of the chair so that it would almost, but not quite, tip and fall. “Well, have a good summer Jeremy,” I heard myself say. “And thanks for the help.” “ Sure.” I listened to his abrasive gait make its way into silence. The building’s outer doors closed. When I finally shut the office door and turned to look, Rood was there waiting. Writer Carol Orlock teaches at the University of Washington. Her last story in CSQ was “True Love.” Tim Braun is an artist living in Portland. 404 S.W. 10th Portland CATERING SPECIALISTS THE MARTINOTTI FAMILY Italian Specialties Wine Bar • Cheeses • Sandwiches Desserts • Salads ■Sundries Weddings, Anniversaries and special occasions. ARMAND-DIXIE FRANK-VINCE CECELIA-DIONE EDDIE un bel giorno 224*9028 A TRUE STORY (>ock-a-roaches, cock-a-roaches, cock-a-roaches. For 26 years my life has been filled with cock-a-roaches. But, what do you expect? I’m Marvin the Exterminator. The last couple of years my feet have been killing me. Every night after supper I sit by the radio, my pants legs rolled up, feet in a pail of water, listening to Mozart. I got to tell you this is no way to listen to Mozart. I ask you what are you gonna do? After supper you want to relax and listen to some good music but your feet won’t leave you alone. So you sit like some schlemiel with your feet in a pail of water and Ester, my wife, giving me THE LOOK and spreading newspapers all over the carpet because she’s worried about water stains. L a s t Friday nite my daughter, Sylvia, who can run like a geezer—you know one of them deer they got in Africa that looks like a skinny dog with horns—she says “Poppa tomorrow I’m taking you to Running Outfitters and get you some Avia shoes. They’re from Portland and they’re wonderful. So we go to this place, Running Outfitters, believe me I’ve exterminated in closets that were bigger than this joint. I look around and there’s not one brown oxford in the store. What kind of shoe store is this? So a fella about my age only younger fits me with a pair of these Avia shoes. I say you got these in a nice brown? He says Avia running shoes represent the highest technical standards in running shoes. I say maybe you got these shoes in tan. Tan is good too. He says Avia running shoes are the most stable shoes on the market. I say stable-schmable I’m talking color here. He says run down to the corner. See how they feel. Now this is some kind of shoe. It’s like walking on your mattress. N o w Ester’s got her mop pail back and she’s not giving me THE LOOK. I can sit like a mensch in my living room and enjoy Mozart. And my feet? It’s like they’re not even there. Now when was the last time you had a pair of shoes do all that for you. RUNNING OUTFITTERS 2331 SW 6th, PORTLAND, OR 248-9820 “As brilliant as it is disturbing. The dangers o f banality that threaten our . sanity and existence have rarely been so vividly portrayed.' CONVENIENT FRIENDLY QUICK & REASONABLE BIKE REPAIRS we Fix All Brands CICLO Clinton St. Quarterly 31
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