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"I'll guess that those of you who don't wind up in jail will be in the hospital," I said spontaneously, not yet convinced that this was happening. Of course, I immediately realized that antagonizing them would only confirm my stupidity.
"If you want her to come home after the party," the woman mumbled as she turned to follow the group, "you'll keep your mouth shut and just accept it for what it is."
Moving away unsteadily, the woman shot me a warning glance. Without a doubt, I was at a loss. These people knew they could call the game and make the rules.
Vernon did not look back as her scrum of friends left the plaza. As I moved to follow them, I felt Grace's hand grasp my arm. She was with Reggie, Samantha and Archie.
They had observed and heard as that disgusting tableau played out.
"I need to know where they are taking her," I said lamely.
"They're not leaving the park," Samantha responded.
We all awaited her explanation.
She shrugged and said, "She wants that damn Mercedes!"
"Mercedes?"
Metaphors dictate. Winning the Mercedes was a metaphor for "infallibility," a necessary component to considering oneself omnipotent and omniscient.
"Samantha's right," Grace agreed. "Vernon's fixated on that Mercedes."
"But where are they taking her?" I demanded.
"There's a Palazzo Motor home parked on the University Center parking lot," Samantha said, now hesitant. She glanced about at the others apprehensively though expectantly.
"Damn it, Frank! This Palazzo Motor Home is a sex connoisseur's romper room on wheels." Grace said, her embarrassment. "It's a damned peripatetic whorehouse."
Undoubtedly, my wife's best friend of the greatest degree and duration had just called her a whore by implication. I was not stunned.
Of course, I wasn't pole axed by Samantha's bilious commentary. I was, Indeed, academically prepossessing; therefore, as a professor, department chairman and Foundation president, I was immune to humiliation and saw no evil.
You see, staunch conservative or not, when one tastes the power inherent in bossing a Foundation and enjoys the faux prestige of a professorship, sharp differentiating lines become blurred. Power makes fools of us all.
We of the university nut, furthermore, are uncreated and, therefore, enigmatically perfect. Oh, yes! In my sacrosanct world, everything happens for the best.
To be sure, I am a disciple of Voltaire's incomparable Doctor Pangloss, a fictional 18th Century professor of "metaphysico-theologo-cosmoronoloy."
As a devotee of Voltaire, I was too sophisticated and cosmopolitan to carry my 18th Century morality ballast with any degree of consistency. My doctor of philosophy degree forbade my being anything more than bemused and curious when I found that my wife had become a parking lot whore in a $3 million motor home.
Parking lot whore? What the hell did Samantha say? Samantha said that Vernon's sexing friends were carrying Vernon to a parking lot next over where she would perform sex for money in a "peripatetic whorehouse."
No! I cannot scream and stomp the asphalt and swear vengeance; for in truth I am a "Philosopher King." As a professorial white male arbiter of all things human, conventional wisdom forbade my being judgmental or critical of any practice involving the use of the vagina. Since I have no vagina, so goes the convention, I have no brief.
When I stood there academically smug and secure in my vacuous lettered supremacy, all my faculty sycophants relaxed.
"What are the probabilities she'll get pledges for $10 million?" Arch asked contemplatively. He concluded as if to himself, "With a thousand other guests working the same crowd, she doesn't have the chance of a snowball in hell."
Now, my wife's insane commitment to winning the Mercedes was a redundancy. Insinuating the correlation between selling her pussy and winning the Mercedes served as both a cultural catastrophe and a human comedy.
Back to the here and now!
Grace has the DVD in place; and she is eager to activate the player and bring the Provost and Vernon to life on the giant screens in the auditorium.
No! Incredibly, it has not occurred to Grace or me that the preponderance of the campus population, most certainly the Provost's coterie of the faculty, would consider our DVD as a symbol of exemplary Hedonism.
Would our exposure of their libidinal obsessions simplistically enhance their authoritarian power?
In the campus ethos of the 21st Century, imagery supplants objectivity. Would this effectively lionize Vernon and the Provost?
*****
End Part One. Concluding Part Two will be posted immediately. Uploading weight required the divide.
