6 April 1995
The president of Mills managed to work our class discussion around to telling us that her scholarly reputation was built on her criticism of Huckleberry Finn. And she told us that a friend of hers wrote an article called, “Is Huck Finn Black?” I thought this should be a pretty short article: No, he is not. The End. So the Pres. wrote a rebuttal article (but a very chummy one) called “Is Huck Finn A Woman?”
Oh god. “Is Huck Finn a Dyke?” “Is Huck Finn a Dog?” Apparently you can build a whole career on this.
I’m home now.
At Supply Sergeant, there’s a leak in the ceiling so that every time the upstairs neighbors flush the toilet, the ceiling goes drip-drip. They’re all going to come down with The Cholera.
Last night I ended up on Teresa’s side of the bed. She sat up and gazed longingly over me at her side. I knew she was just dying to be over there. “Get on your side,” I said and did an imitation of her longing look.
“No!” she said and plunked back on my side. But pretty soon we switched places.
Right now Teresa is etch-a-sketching and listening to her Walkman. I just walked over there to get her attention and ask her for some detail. I tapped the table. Nothing. Tapped it again. I waved my hand back and forth. No response.
I have never concentrated so hard on anything except squeezing a pimple.