Tess’s Round 7 Challenge: Incorporate a Homicidal Clown (taken from Omar’s Story). Word limit: 600
Read TESS 6 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)
I’ve never been one for the poet type of boy, at least not the stereotypical kind who wants to discuss “Rimbaud and Verlaine” over absinthe (not because he likes their poetry but because he likes the thought of liking it) (and same goes for the absinthe) and who doesn’t know how to dress up or dress down for occasions because all he wears is shabby old brown jackets because that’s what he thinks poets should wear because that’s what they wore a century ago, which is only because that was their best clothing back then.
Not that we girls are any better. Whether it’s Amy Winehouse with her silly beehive hairdo or the burlesque comeback or whatever, it’s all about copying the past. Our only cultural contribution is tattoos on our lower back (and even tramp stamps have been passé for a decade). Either my generation is really insecure or really boring or really unimaginative because we’ve got nothing of our own. It’s sad.
Though I was rearing to hear Ryan, I didn’t expect a poetry lecture to do much for me. Boys had tried explaining poetry to me before but I never got it, probably because they didn’t get it themselves. Reading poetry made me feel just as dumb as when I couldn’t get a “smart” joke. But Ryan was so eloquent and clear that he gave the poetry legs. As he stood at the lectern with his lazy eye reciting lines I felt that *he* was the poem.
After class his fan club of undergrad girls (of course) bum rushed his desk. He fended them off one by one until the two of us were left talking alone in the lecture hall. I pulled a bright red apple from my sling bag and put it on his desk. I said, “Thanks professor” and winked.
He said, “Trisha, have you ever read IT?”
He said, “I don’t know how you feel about Pennywise, but there’s an off-Broadway play performing this week called ‘Deconstructing Psycho Killer Clowns.’ It’s based on the cultural critic Mark Dery’s theories on the archetype of the Evil Clown and has received great reviews from reliable critics. I was thinking of going Friday. Interested in joining me for some carnivalesque Friday night evil?”
So just like that I had a date with the prof in four days (which still ended up not being enough time to read IT…). Double exclamation mark.
The red apple was key. Passivity gets you nowhere. Guys might have gone for that Goodie Too Shoes type who stands shyly in the corner with blinking eyelashes back in our grandparent’s day but that’s all gone now. If we girls all stood around waiting, the species would die off. Back then you didn’t have to hunt. Boys did the hunting.
Now it’s the boys who stand around, lacking confidence, not even opening a door for you, mumbling at their feet about the equality of the sexes and how there’s no differences between them, etc. They’ve turned generosity and gallantry into a women’s rights issue. Until they start shaving their legs and wearing lacy thongs with pink hearts they should lay off their penny-pinching excuses about the lack of differences.
Not that Ryan was like that. He opened doors for me, paid for dinner, paid for the play, paid for drinks, and paid for the cab ride back to his place afterwards. After that, it was my treat.