“Growth, Peter, adulthood.”
“I love singlehood, stay single and live forever, man.”
Some shabby-looking guy walked into the bar. Something about him caught Peter’s attention. Craig was recounting how his wedding preparations were coming, how he’d love Peter to either be his best man or take over his workload for the week.
Peter thought the guy looked familiar. He wore what looked like work clothes. He had a face that may have gone through some sort of grinder, it was riddled in crevices.
“Peter?”
“Huh?” Peter took his eyes off the pitted face.
“I’m talking to you, man.” Craig touched his shoulder. “I need help with Anglo-German Relations?”
Peter said something in reply. Craig said, “You’re the best.”
The stranger leaned in to talk in Ted Cooper’s ear. The conversation at Ted’s table stopped for the exchange. Then the man left without looking his way.
Peter’s interest in the man was short-lived. The anger he harbored against Ted resurrected. He managed another thread of conversation with Craig.
Peter parked his car in the garage beside a U-Haul van. Further down the row there was the Ducati bike. But the rider was nowhere near.
As he went up the stairs, two grey eyes watched him from behind a pillar. The man from the club, who had talked with Ted Cooper, brought his phone to his ear.
“He’s in, sir.”
“The professor?”
“Yes, him.”
“Alright, enough for now. Cut him loose.”
The man heaved a sigh of relief. He pocketed his phone and jumped on his bike. He hated this part of his job. In the past, he killed people but now his financier wanted him to make sure people stayed out of harm's way. It was a new experience for him, this bodyguard job. And the people he protects often didn’t know they had a personal angel.
He sped in the direction of downtown to find a whore for the night.
13
Peter heard the sound of the bike leaving the parking lot below. He went to the window, pulled the curtains to see, but he was too late. He knew almost everyone on his block. None had a bike, certainly not a Ducati.
He had ridden in his undergrad days. He knew a little of bikes and their various sounds.
As a matter of habit, and on account of his promise to help Craig Bozeman with his courses, he booted his laptop. He was in the shower, singing Phil Collins’ “I Don’t Care Anymore,” off-key, when his laptop readied and received an email.
When he came out of the bathroom he saw it.
It said,
Good day to you Professor,
It is our hope that your day went well and your night begins with much satisfaction.
You are hereby invited to a ball by the University of Florida. This is a ball in honor of our esteemed benefactors to be held at the Baughman Center. Time is 7:00 pm, prompt.
Please, dress formal. This invitation admits you and a companion.
Best regards.
Edward Dyer was the president, and his signature was below, like a chicken's scratch.
“What the…”
He rubbed his towel around his shoulder, slowly assimilating the short email from the office of the president. Peter had never attended any of those balls before. He’d only heard of them. They were a big thing among select professors and other teaching staff, but boring big things all the same.
He read the email again. He looked at his cellphone beside his computer and almost called Craig or maybe the dean Barry Dutch himself. Well, maybe he was getting the recognition he deserved after all this time.
Peter slept better that night.
Peter Williams wore a dark pin-striped suit, black brogues polished to a blinding shine, and he was alone.
He had his hair cut to a crew cut. He agreed that he was handsome and needed a girl to come with him to the ball. But the invitation came on short notice. Besides, who was there to take to such a party, one of the girls from his class?
He smiled ruefully at the skirmishes from his past.
There was Olivia, he thought as he nosed his car into the parking lot, but she wasn’t his type. It was 7:05 pm. He was late but these functions always started late anyway.
Baughman Center was lit up. It stood gigantic with its Victorian-style windows and stuccos. The surrounding field reflected the yellow glare.
Peter scanned the parking lot to tell what to expect in there. Well, opulence, for one thing. And then he saw Ted Cooper’s car, a yellow Camaro he drove on occasion.
He walked up the stairs, got a pamphlet with an outline of the night's procession on it from a round and short valet. He was ushered in by another one who wore a bow tie and tailcoats.
The familiar fragrance of champagne filled his nose. Bass guitar music, the sort from Saturday matinees, filled his ears. The hall was already crowded. Peter didn’t know half the people. The ones he knew definitely didn’t expect to see him.
Barry Dutch patted him on the back.
“Look who we have here,” he hollered.
Barry’s breath smelled of alcohol. They shook hands. Peter looked around to see if Ted would show up on the heels of the dean. He didn’t. Barry Dutch wore a waistcoat under his jacket. And a bow tie. Peter hated ties now.
“So you got invited too. Me, I was surprised that I was,” Barry confided, a little drunkenly.
Peter picked up a glass off the tray a waiter carried past.
“I could not resist, I had to crash this one,” Peter lied.
Barry looked at him dubiously.
Peter scanned the crowd. “Where’s everyone?”
“What’d you mean, we are all here. Have you seen Ted and Silva Goodall, oh those guys looked like they were cut from Vogue magazines,” Barry blared.
Peter sipped his drink. He smiled genuinely for the first time. A man who looked like a businessman put his arm around Barry’s shoulder and pulled him away in a bray of laughter and introductions.
It was going on all over the place: introductions.
He checked his pamphlet. In ten minutes' time there will be an introduction of guests. Peter walked off to the side of the hall where he saw Silva Goodall standing by himself. The man didn’t look anything like a celebrity.
“Peter.”
“Silva.” Peter raised his glass. “Cheers. How come you are alone here?”
“Look around you, all these people know is high living and making money. I’m just a professor.”
Peter shook his head in mock agreement. “The pollution.”
“Tell me about it.” Silva put his empty glass on a tray that hovered past. “Say, rotten luck with your expedition. Sorry I couldn’t give you support.”
Peter shrugged. It was typical of Goodall to be open with his faults. Peter liked that about the man. Yet, he thought Goodall was a sissy.
“All you had to do was raise your hand up, you know, and vote for the academics.”
Goodall hissed, “You know how it is with Ted Cooper. He hated being crossed.”
Peter shrugged again. The MC went up the stage where the band was playing. He took a wireless microphone and coughed into it. He opened white teeth and showed them to all. Peter didn’t know him. The man looked English. He called for silence.
“Good evening all…”
Ted Cooper finally sauntered onto the red carpet with a girl twice as young as him. The girl hung from his elbow like a handbag. She was pretty, probably twenty-three.
He nodded at Peter Williams, eyed his clothes and shoes, decided Peter passed his test, then he gave him his hand to shake.