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Show Anting Alone Page 253 these professional writers command with their overdeveloped third eye! Maybe the doc would like to hire Sam on as film critic, a regular feature in the Kansas Review of the Collective Humanities. It would probably be a good idea to hit old Dr. A. up for a job while the ink while was still fresh on Sam's "fascist piece." So Sam continued going among his colleagues, asking, "Where is Dr. Abraham? Have you seen Dr. Abraham around?" Incidentally, the floating droolers notwithstanding, what follows should not be misconstrued as an attempt to sour the world on English departments. (Bernard Malamud already did that in A New Life.) Despite the one preternaturally unattractive amphetamine addict whom Sam was about to meet on his quest for Dr. A., there were a couple of good, kind, even touching people who had shared the GTA office with Sam before he'd gone off the deep end, and he loved them, his little colleagues. There were Colleague X, and Colleague Y. Colleague X was six-foot-two, elegant and thin, and moved like a very, very young deer: all touchingly clumsy at moments of self-consciousness or stress, and unbelievably graceful the rest of the time. Colleague X wore fine, elegant suits of thick, almost edible tweed, and made up poems about Jesse James that were all formidable architecture on the outside, and all sweetness on the inside. Getting excited over a phrase or even a mere pair of words made by somebody contemporary like Stephen Dunn, she would scoot her long bottom forward on her chair and her skin would commence to glow like flowers. She pronounced her life's main love po-tree, almost in baby-talk. You'll notice this among otherwise well-spoken artists: that |
