HUnewearl_Meira
Feb 20, 2007, 10:52 PM
Normally, I only post a short between books of The Recollection Saga, but I've realized that one of the big reasons why The Recollection of Mota Storm is coming along so slowly (the general rucus of 2006, aside), is that Mota Storm focuses a great deal more on the hard tasks of the adventure, and offers relatively little in the way of humor.
So, in an attempt to clear the pipes, so to speak, I've gone ahead and finished off the short I was planning to post between The Recollection of Mota Storm and The Recollection of Allanque.
In The Recollection of Crankshaft: Short Woman, we find Crankshaft's attraction to Laya becoming an issue. The short also touches on a number of other up-and-coming plot points for The Recollection Saga, though I'll leave you on your own to try and figure out what those are.
So here we go, again. Enjoy!
The Recollection of Crankshaft
Short Woman
Laya really is a lovely young woman. My naval is approximately at her eye level, for I am in firm possession of fearsome tallness, which contrasts pleasingly with her appealing not-tallness. In a desperate, last-ditch attempt to inspire her to attend the University's faculty Christmas party with me, I burst into her office the day before, and randomly engaged in an energetic Disco-styled dance, featuring rather explicitly, a great deal of pelvic thrusts, because well, what Disco dance is complete without fervorous pelvic thrusts, right?
I was busting my groove with great diligence when she calmly told me, without looking up from the papers she was grading, "No, Crankshaft. For the last time, I won't go to the party with you." I wish to clarify, this wasn't to say that she wasn't planning to attend the party. Surely no, this was to say that she was planning to attend the party, just not with me.
I put my hands on my hips, looked to the left and pelvic thrusted to the left, then looked to my right, and pelvic thrusted to my right, before stretching my arms to my sides, where I rolled a wave motion back and forth down them, and spun around. I finished the spin by stopping suddenly, and tossing a yo-yo out, and pulling it back up, which I did two or three more times before slipping it in my pocket. I'm not exactly sure when the yo-yo got into my hand, but I finished the whole thing by snapping and pointing at Laya with both hands. "Oh good," I said, "You've rejected my request for the last time. With any luck, all you've got left now is acceptance!"
She looked up at me. She was wearing her reading glasses, which were now sitting very low on her nose, over which, she was looking at me. She was looking at me over her nose, too; as well, she was looking at me over several items on her desk, but primarily, over her glasses, I think. They were the highest vertical obstacle over which she had to look over. I rolled my head away from her, maintaining eye contact, and nodding a few times. She said, "Crankshaft, in the past answer has always been no, the answer is still no, and the answer will always be no. I cannot emphasize this enough: the answer is no."
I did some mental arithmetic She said "no" four times, which is like -1 to the power of four, so -1 times -1 is 1, times -1 again is -1, and multiplied by -1 a last time, brings us back to 1, which means, YES! I jumped and pointed accusingly at her, while shouting, "Ah-HA!" She was about to say something, but I interrupted her, saying, "You said no four times, which is like -1 to the power of four, so negative one times negative one is one, times negative one again, is negative one, and multiplied by negative one a last time, brings us back to one, which to me, means, 'When shall I pick you up?'" I took a giant step toward her desk, and sat on the corner of it, where I opted to stare at her obsequiously.
She went back to grading papers, and said, "No. There, that's five."
I jumped up and shook my fist at the ceiling for no reason other than to make a dramatic pose, while I shouted, "No! Foiled again!"
While I was shaking my fist, I heard her say, "Don't you have a class right now?"
Indeed, I did. The time was @345 beats, and I had an afternoon class at @350. "Indeed, I do," I said, abruptly stopping my fist shaking, which, by that time, I had forgot why I was doing it.
So I went to class, and K-420's questions evidenced that he was learning what I was teaching him, causing me to enact my happy dance five or six times before the bell rang, warning my students that they could leave. Strangely enough though, this once full class, with forty-five students now included only twelve, ever since Akolyte's massacre down the street. As far as I know, there are two other classes that were struck this hard, one of them being Professor Tamaguchi's Calculus at @200 beats, and Professor Russel's Grammar 4A class at @500 beats. For some reason, it seems that most of our students were in Akolyte's path of destruction that afternoon. Professor Tamaguchi was unfortunate enough to break his thumb and index finger on his right hand that day as well, in a separate, unrelated incident that has since made it very complicated for him to write on his white board.
As my twelve students stood to leave, I pointed dramatically at Kataclyn, and started to wiggle the fingers of both my hands at her, as though trying to cast a spell. She looked at me worriedly as I did this. "Sir?" she meekly asked.
I continued to wiggle my fingers at her, and began pulling my left arm back and forth as I did it. Then I abruptly stopped, stared at her blankly with my arms dangling at my side and said, "I'd like to have a word with you, Kataclyn." I was a little worried about her work. Her papers had watermarks on them that I didn't make.
She looked down, clutching her books to her chest and said, "All right..."
I sat behind the class's teacher's desk, and folded my fingers together as she came down the steps toward me. I tried to look dignified, but I believe I may have overshot my goal, not looking uber-dignified, but rather, perhaps uptight and nervous. Next time, I will endevor to refrain from flaring my nostrils in dignification.
When she got to the desk, she looked up at me, and asked, "Is there a problem, Professor Differential?"
I gestured toward the chair on the other side of the desk. "Please, sit down." She sat and obeyed. Her hair was tied back, and she wore a headband with two projections at top, giving the impression of cat-like ears. Her otherwise gentle face was tampered with by a large scar down her right cheek, which I always thought was rather unfortunate.
I stared at her with no clear expression, while making these observations. We were sitting there for a good half a beat, before she finally said, "Professor? Is there something wrong?"
I took this as a cue to loosen up, so I leaned back, and threw my feet up on the desk. As I picked my teeth with the fingernail on my pinky finger, something happened to me that has never happened before, in my entire, years-long history of leaning back with my feet up on the desk. I was greatly confused when it happened, too. Just a whole, entire moment of, what the hell? Just a big box of it dumped on me as though it were a thing that could be put into a big box for the purpose of being dumped on me. Tangentially, I'll mention that Laya tells me that I fail at similes.
As I picked at my teeth, I fell. The chair just leapt from underneath me, and I was on the ground, head bang against the tile. Kataclyn jumped up, dropping her books on the floor, to look over the desk at me. "Professor! Are you all right?"
I scrambled strugglesomely to get up, repositioned my chair, sat in it, and fell again. When I got up this time, I grabbed the chair and clumsily threw it aside, knocking over the trash can by the desk, and spilling Overmind's half-full soda from the nearby cafe all over the floor. I was obliged to ignore this though, and I just looked at Kataclyn. Kataclyn was looking back at me sorrowfully, as though it were all somehow her fault. I regained my composure as dramatically as I could, and after straightening my garments, I gestured and said, "It's all right, I'm all right, I choose now," I paused for effect, "to stand."
She stood and continued to watch me. "Please," I said, "sit back down. Please." Again, she obeyed.
"So," she questioned, "What is this all about?"
I gestured around the room and said, "Well, y'know, you and your group come to learn, and I and my group come to teach; to impart our knowledge to you and your group. I think it's a pretty good arrangement, myself."
This left her confused. "Sir?" she said, "What are you trying to say?"
While she said this, my head drifted toward an open window for no particular reason, and I had begun picking my teeth, again. I jerked my head back toward her and said, "Huh? I was trying to say something?" She looked at me again, confused. "Oh, yeah," I commented, then proceeded to say, "I'm going to the faculty Christmas party. I'm going stag."
This did not clear up her confusion. I hung my head and complained, "Laya refuses to heed my pleas." I made noises as though I were crying.
"So... you're asking me for advice?" she asked.
Then it struck me that she was the only female student in this particular class, and therefore it would be logical for me to ask advice from her, if I am to ask a student from this class. I jumped and gestured stiffly with my right index finger, "Yes! I am asking you for advice!"
She looked at me worried again, and said, "You do know that I killed my husband, right?"
I stopped gesturing stiffly, and let my arms drop to my side again. I thought about this for a minute, and said, "Well... I'm sure he deserved it."
"Yes," she agreed, "That's what the courts decided..."
"See, I told you I was right. Always trust your teachers."
She began to get up, and apologized, "I'm sorry, sir, but you really don't want me to be involved in your personal life."
I shrugged. "That's all right. I wanted to talk to you about your work, anyway."
She stopped, and looked at me. "Sir? Are my grades declining? I'll try harder, I promise."
I shrugged, and said, "Well, no, your grades are fine. In fact, out of the twelve in this class, you've got the second highest score this semester, even before, we, er, lost," I did the math in my head real quick, widely mouthing the numbers I was thinking, and also took the time to calculate the cube root of Pi to thirty-three decimal places, and finished the sentence with, "Thirty three students."
"What's wrong, then?" she asked.
I pulled her most recent paper out of my brief case, and set it on the desk. With a pencil that I procured from-- I'm not sure where... Thin air, as far as I know. Anyway, with a pencil, I circled some wrinkly spots, and showed it to her. "These have been appearing on your papers, as of late." Then I told her that I checked on her previous paper, and all these water-marked spots tasted salty (and I did taste all of them), and she seemed mildly disturbed by this.
"You tasted my homework??" she asked. She was full of questions that afternoon.
"Yes!" I shouted. "Kataclyn, I absolutely need to know: Are my homework assignments making you depressed? Please, tell me the truth, because if they're bringing you to tears, then I've gotta do something about that." Naturally, this was the only logical conclusion that I was able to come to. I walked around the desk, dropped to my knees in front of her, and then begged her, "Please! I don't mean to do it! I don't mean to make you cry! I just like to keep my students on their toes!"
She shook her head, and said, "No... No, sir, it's not you..."
I stood and said, "Oh, well, I guess it's okay, then."
"It's just that..."
"That?" I said, then shook my fist at nothing in particular, "Damn you, That! I'll get you some day!"
"Nevermind," she said. "Listen, I'm sorry, but I've gotta go get ready for my Grammar class." She started to rush off toward the door.
I called at her, "But what should I do about Laya?"
She turned around and walked backward, still toward the door, "I don't know! Just be nice to her, I guess!"
I pondered this for a moment, but soon had to gather my stuff and leave, when Professor Hawkins appeared to teach his programming glass. I saluted him mightily, and left the room before he discovered the spilled soda.
I sat back down in my office. It was around @480 beats or so. Laya would still be in class until @500 beats. Experimentally, I leaned back in my chair, and put my feet on my desk. I picked my teeth with the fingernail of my pinky finger. I didn't fall. I tried picking my teeth more vigorously, and still, I didn't fall. I tried picking my teeth more vigorously, yet, furiously thrusting my fingernail between my incisors and growling slightly, but I hastily stopped and jerked up-right, when I happened to have the thought that I was picking my teeth with the same finger I use to pick my ear.
That was a thought. My right ear called to my pinky finger. I could hear it, vividly. "Pinky finger!" it called, "Come to me! Clean me!"
My finger began to move to it. My left hand grabbed my right hand and shouted, "No! Don't do it! It's a trap!"
"No! I must!" my finger insisted.
My ear just nodded and called, "Yes! Come to me, Right-hand Pinky Finger! Come and harvest my copious deposits of wax!"
I grimaced at the whole ordeal. It was not pretty. My left arm struggled with my right arm mightily, but alas, in the end, it was unable to prevent the inescapable. My right pinky penetrated my right ear canal, and wiggled about for a while. I suspect that this may be the very reason why the forces of evolution saw fit to give humanoids pinky fingers. Someday, left hand, you will win. Some day.
In fact, it didn't happen that way. There were no words spoken, the dialog was all understood to be occurring.
By the time @500 came around, I was starting to doze off. I had the thought that I should go for a walk, and I started to walk toward the door to the hallway, but I stopped, when I heard a pair of voices. One was Laya's, the other was, I believe, one of her students. Overhearing this conversation revolutionized my life. It was really only a little revolution, but it was a revolution, nevertheless. Viva la revolucion!
I heard the student say, "Why don't you just file sexual harassment charges on him? Surely, that'll make him stop, and even if it doesn't, then someone else will."
I initially reacted to this thinking, "Gasp! Someone's sexually harassing Laya? I'll hurt him!" I then contemplated a string of curse words directed at the scoundrel.
Then Laya said, "Well, Crankshaft, while he may be a little unorthodoxed, is a brilliant teacher and a valuable asset to the Physics department." I was stunned. They were talking about me!
They stopped right outside the door to Laya's office and the student insisted, "That's no excuse! What he's doing is still wrong!"
Laya sighed, and more quietly, informed her, "Look, honestly," she paused. I imagine that she looked around first, then she said, "Don't tell anyone this, but I actually kinda like it. I don't know why, but he's just kinda funny sometimes." She started talking normally again, as she said, "And besides, it's not as though he's groping me or otherwise grabbing me inappropriately, anyway."
I stepped back from my door, and pondered. I thought to myself, "You know what this means, don't you?" To which, I responded, "Pi r squared?" This gave me pause for thought, but I came to the conclusion that this equation has already been proven, and there would forever be nothing I could do about it. You win again, this time Pi. You win again, but I swear that someday, I will uncover your irrational plans to foil us, and put us away to be eaten at a later date! The power of Trigonometry compels you! Hissing noise goes here.
Setting my life's new secret mission aside, I reminded myself that she said she "like" and "it" in the same sentence, with the word "don't" hesitating until the next sentence to appear, and I'm pretty sure that "it" was referring to me. Wait, am I an 'it'? I suppose that I'm a 'he' but not a 'she'. I'm certainly an object in the universe of some sort, and I'm not clear that being a living object of some sort in the universe automatically disqualifies one as being an 'it'. I do, however, disregard that this lumps me in the same category with my arch-enemy, irrational numbers (and Pi, their great geometric king), so that I can focus on the important thing.
When I came to the important thing, my eyes widened and my jaw opened. I jumped and did my happy dance. The important thing was this: Laya stated that she kinda likes me. New hope and fervor await! It could very well be that I won't have to attend the party stag. Maybe I'd be able to attend it like, mustang or pinto, or stud or something. I don't properly understand what horses have to do with parties and how they are attended. I do, however, enjoy thrusting my chest out and proclaiming, "I am Stag." The only thing that could make it better would be to have the matching double saber.
So I sat down to work out how to take a big heavy machine and integrate it into the empty shell of an even bigger, heavier machine, as I had forgotten that I was going to take a walk, and remembered that I was trying to work out the details on this project, which had little to do with Pi. Then I remembered I was going to take a walk, so I considered where I would be walking. I chose to start in Laya's office, the reasons for which would not be apparent to her, and revealed to even me, only through extraneous exploration.
I opened the door into her office, and walked in. I began to strut. I strut passed her desk. I strut behind her desk. I went around for another pass in front of her desk, turned around, and passed in front again, then returned to my office. Laya never looked up from the lesson plan she was working on.
After my refreshing strut, I returned to my desk, and began working out details on the previously mentioned project, which deals very little with Pi. I looked up at my perpetual motion device, which I recently put together. The secret to making it work turned out to be duct tape. It's a precision device, but no proper sealant would do the job right, so I duct taped it instead. I also had to place a rolled up wad of it, hidden in an inside corner to adjust the local gravity curves within. I flipped it over a week ago, and it hasn't stopped since. I only wish that it made a sound, maybe a tick or something, but I couldn't allow any energy whatsoever to escape from it, if it were to keep spinning. Really, it's a continuing experiment. Someday, I will find a use for it.
Thinking about that, I got up, and poked my head into Laya's office. "Laya?" I asked.
"No," she said in anticipation.
I ignored this, and asked her, "When does Someday come?"
She answered back, "Sunday is the last day of the week, Crankshaft. After Saturday and before Monday."
"No no no, not Sunday. Someday." I emphasized the M as opposed to the N.
"Someday?"
"Someday."
She looked up at me, as though to ask for help, so I rushed over there, knelt down and held her hand. "Just... Whenever you want, I guess, Crankshaft. Eventually."
I looked down, and considered this with a frown and concerned stare at the ground. "I see," I said.
She sweetly said to me, "Crankshaft..."
I looked up to her, hopefully. Visions of getting kissed floated through my head. "Yes?" I answered.
"Let go of my hand," she requested of me.
I looked at the hand I was holding. I examined it carefully. Then I observed out loud, "Your right pinky finger is devoid of earwax."
She pulled her hand from mine, leaving me to examine the space that it once occupied. The only thing special about said space that I happened to observe, was that it was previously occupied by Laya's hand. Also, in retrospect, I believe it was not being occupied by Pi, which I suppose is always a good sign.
I stood and straightened my garments. A dozen ideas flashed through my head, exploding like a line of balloons run over by a train. This happens to me from time to time, actually. Several concurrent lines of thoughts will suddenly develop into great ideas in series, one after another over an instant. It's quite a load just choosing one to focus on and talk about.
I chose the most regal pose I could muster, but quickly decided that no properly regal pose should incorporate holding your crotch, so I stuffed that hand into my lapels, and stuck my chest out, instead. "Laya," I began, "I understand that you have refused to attend the Christmas party with me, but I would like to ask you something else, instead." It was taking a great deal of effort to not burst out about the apparent uselessness of a perpetual motion device, but the plan seemed to be working, nevertheless. I had her attention, now.
She set down her pen, then turned in her chair to face me properly, with her hands in her lap. "You have my attention, Crankshaft." She had her reading glasses hanging in on the edge of the dainty cliff that would be the tip of her nose, so she could look over them at me, above the perhaps dozen other things she was also, in fact, looking over to see me.
Concentrating, to continue on this plan to not diverge off onto some unrelated topic, an arduous task that I don't really understand others being so adept at, I continued, "May I try to convince you otherwise, tonight, over dinner? Privately. We can dine at your place or mine, or any location of your choosing."
She tilted her head. "Crankshaft," she asked, "Did you just speak three complete sentences, and another too short to be grammatically correct, without diverging onto an irrelevant subject?" I was about to agree, but she quickly said, "Don't answer that, I realize the question doesn't help." She looked at me for a moment, then continued, "Crankshaft, I don't think I've ever seen you so serious about one thing since," she paused, "Well, in a while." She was thinking of Akolyte's rampage, I'm sure, but she tries not to bring that up when unnecessary. She lost some students then, too, and it was a really hard time for her.
I opened my mouth to say something, but she jumped up and stretched to touch a finger to my lips, "No, Crankshaft, don't say a word. I'm afraid you'll spoil it." She brought her hand down, and straightened her dress, before looking up at me and finally answering, "Very well, Crankshaft. I will concede to your invitation for tonight."
I took a step away to get room, and commenced my happy dance. While I was flailing about, she sat back down at her desk to return to reviewing papers, and said, "But you're not cooking. I've seen that nuclear mini-fridge you've got in your office, and frankly, I'm terrified of what you might have at home."
I abruptly halted my dance, bringing my arms to hang limply at my sides, and turned to her, asking, "So... You are cooking, then?"
"Absolutely not," she replied. Continuing without looking up from her work, she explained, "We'll go over to Che Altair, in the Pinkal district. We can get a high-backed booth there that'll do a decent job of shielding us from public view." I'd like to comment here, that it's also quite expensive. She tagged onto it, looking up at me from the corner of her eye, and pausing in her work to say this, "And you're paying."
Ah, the price you pay, the price you pay.
We left the building two beats apart, and took separate taxis. She also made the reservations for @650, providing a reasonable amount of time to get some grading done and still arrive on time. In fact, she arrived right on schedule and I got there at @655, after stopping to examine a few windows and determine exactly why I would not be buying them. First off, they were already installed. Laya tells me that I am still inept at window shopping.
Che Altair was dimly lit, and carried a dark red motif. To be precise, the tables themselves were lit in moody, silvery light, carefully projected to allow a minimum to spill outside of area immediately surrounding each table. The dark red carpet featured an elaborate floral pattern, manifested by black outlines. All the tables were revealed from high-backed booths on only one side, and corner-booths, only at one corner. The booths were upholstered in dark red, with a pattern similar to that on the carpet, and the tables themselves were a nice, imitation mahogany A hostess brought me to Laya, who was in a booth.
She must have applied some make-up on her way to the restaurant. She's normally quite pretty, but the way she sat there, looking over her menu, shiny, red, pursed lips, tapping her chin with her index finger, really just sent a shiver down my back, and I almost fell. After I apologized to the hostess that lead me to the table for grabbing her shoulder so abruptly, I sat down and slid in close to Laya.
She looked at me from the menu, and smiled. "Good evening, Crankshaft," she greeted me. We were off to a good start.
At that point, I think being stunned by her preparations for the evening got some wires crossed. I thought, "Great Light, you are looking gorgeous tonight," but I said, "Every object in the universe is attracted to every other object in the universe in proportion to its mass, and inversely proportional to the distance between them, so by delicately balancing dense materials around the interior of a box, in carefully calculated locations, and then creating a vacuum within that box, the introduction of a sufficient amount of catalyst energy will allow a pendulum to swing in circles indefinitely." I meant to say what I thought, and to think what I said, so at the very least, I explained these details of my perpetual motion device in a passionate, awestruck manner.
She looked at me worriedly, and I thought, "I'm sorry, I meant to compliment you on your appearance, rather than explain the physics of perpetual motion devices," and instead apologized, "They should make a movie from The Guild. They could give it a larger budget for sets and special effects, and include the full-frontal nudity they've thus far shied away from."
Her eyebrow raised, and I tried again, thinking, "Egad, I'm still doing it!" This was accompanied by a verbalized and subsequently halted, "If Hildebears averagely weigh in at 360 kilograms--" I sounded quite shocked to be saying this, and stopped myself. I next lifted a finger to indicate that I wanted her to give me a moment. I had to check and make sure that it was the right finger, too, as I was also, at that time, remembering an aggressive argument between two students in the quad earlier that day. It was, in fact, the correct finger, and not the one used by the young woman I had seen earlier that day, to express her feelings toward her now ex-boyfriend.
As I silenced and tried to straighten myself out, she said to me, "My goodness, Crankshaft, you're making even less sense than usual, tonight. What happened?"
Confident that I finally had sorted out internal monologue from speech, I explained, "I'm sorry, but your beauty this evening must have shocked me so much, that I got my internal monologue switched around with my speech." Honest. This is what happened.
Laya took her glasses off, and placed a hand to her chest, as she engaged in a breathy gasp. "Crankshaft," placing her other hand on my wrist, she gasped, "That was," she paused, and I thought she was going to say something not entirely different involving how incredibly flattered she was, but she went on to say, in an impressed tone, "Incredibly slick! You almost had me on that one. Whoever you learned that from must be quite the ladies' man." With a smirk, she slapped my knee, playfully.
I looked back at her helplessly, and insisted, "No, really, that's what happened." I never did convince her.
Aside from costing me in excess of ten-thousand mesetas, the dinner went well. We talked about our classes, and we talked about the university. We also had some very nice wine, which I discretely went easy on, as I didn't want to spoil the evening with my usual drunken behavior, typically involving flailing and yelling incoherent jumbles. Laya, however, while she clearly wasn't trying to get drunk, was neither holding back. Admittedly, when I recognized this, I chose to try to use it to my advantage, and ordered another bottle of wine.
After the second bottle came, I thanked the waitress, and filled Laya's glass, again. While I poured, I took the reins of the conversation, and steered it toward the two of us.
"So," I said as I returned her glass to her, "Why is it that you make like you don't like me all the time?"
She took the glass, and swished the wine around in it a couple of times, before smiling and replying, "I don't dislike you, Crankshaft. How dare you even suggest it!"
"Go on. Elaborate," I eagerly responded.
She took another sip of her wine, and explained, "Truth be told, I think you're really funny. There've been days when I've gotten home and laughed for ten beats at a time, because of something you did. I don't know if you do it on purpose, but you really make me laugh, and it's all I can do just to ignore you and get some work done."
"So, that makes you angry, then?"
"No, not really. Usually I only get angry with you when you do or suggest something inappropriate." Apparently I say a lot of inappropriate things.
I went ahead and downed a glass of wine, and when I put the glass down, my food was before me, and our conversation came and went as we were each distracted with our expensive meals. Eventually, I got also it out of her that she is often worried about being seen doing romantic things in public with me, because I typically will suddenly engage in some awkward behavior.
I thought for certain, that I had her convinced, until the lady with the desert cart arrived. Laya was saying, "I think that maybe your behavior tonight has proven to me that you can behave without having problems, Crankshaft."
Before I could say anything in response, however, the lady with the desert cart asked us, "Would you two like some pie?"
I had been holding back all night. Now, I was being beckoned. It was welling up inside me. The urge to react was strong, and I could not stop it. I pointed at her, and exclaimed, "Pie?! You need Pi to calculate the circumference, area, surface area and volume of pie!" This startled her enough to make her jump, and nearly lose the contents of her cart onto the floor.
I realized I was trying to stand, and forced myself back into a sitting position. Then I observed my right arm still pointing and shaking, so I dispatched my left hand to grab it, and bring it under control; which, through a great deal of effort on my left hand's part, it did.
I looked back to Laya, who was staring at me, pale-faced, and as calmly as I could, I looked back at the lady, and I asked, calmly and coolly, "This pie, of which you speak... It is cut into triangle-shaped wedges?"
She had recovered from my startling of her, and after smoothing out her black skirt, she nodded, and replied, "Yes, sir. It is."
Coolly, suavely, I looked to Laya again, and I said, "In that case, we'll each have a slice." In my mind, I was screaming, "YES! YEAH! Take that Pi! Your delectable, phonetically identical minion has been defeated with Triangles! The power of Trigonometry compels you!" Ha ha! This time, Pi, you have not won! This battle ended in your defeat!
I walked her home, that night. It turns out that her apartment is several blocks away from my own, but nearly in the same neighborhood. While we were at the door to her building, she had me lean down so she could kiss my cheek. I had not previously been aware that a simple kiss on the cheek could have the same level of mental impact as a sledge hammer to your face. For an instant, all my thoughts stopped. All at once, my mind was empty, except for the memory of that kiss. That instant seemed days long; that eerie silence that jumped in on my mental riot, and the cool evaporation of the moisture from her lips on my cheek.
Then she whispered in my ear, and in my mind, I hurdled so far and hard, that I nearly missed her message. Her warm breath on my virgin ear raised the hair on the back of my neck, as she told me, "I had a great time, Crankshaft. I will go to the Christmas party with you."
Feeling frozen at first, I stood up straight, with my mouth wide open, as I seemed to have lost all control of it, and there was nothing drifting through my mind to take over it. She opened the door, and said, "Good night, Crankshaft. I'll see you in the morning."
She shut the door behind her, and I just stood there. The following fireworks display in my mind started slowly, as I began to regain progressively finer motor skills. I slowly realized what I had done: I just got Laya to agree to attend the Christmas Party with me! I did my happy dance, several times, but I didn't feel it was enough, so I invented a new happy dance with more flailing about, which I now call my Hyper-Happy dance, and I danced that several times.
I walked, ran, skipped and hopped home, after that. Since then, my usual collection of ongoing, idling thoughts has resumed, but I doubt I will ever forget that moment when Laya stopped it all.
Tonight, I'll be picking her up, and we'll attend the party. I do hope that there will be dancing.
So, in an attempt to clear the pipes, so to speak, I've gone ahead and finished off the short I was planning to post between The Recollection of Mota Storm and The Recollection of Allanque.
In The Recollection of Crankshaft: Short Woman, we find Crankshaft's attraction to Laya becoming an issue. The short also touches on a number of other up-and-coming plot points for The Recollection Saga, though I'll leave you on your own to try and figure out what those are.
So here we go, again. Enjoy!
The Recollection of Crankshaft
Short Woman
Laya really is a lovely young woman. My naval is approximately at her eye level, for I am in firm possession of fearsome tallness, which contrasts pleasingly with her appealing not-tallness. In a desperate, last-ditch attempt to inspire her to attend the University's faculty Christmas party with me, I burst into her office the day before, and randomly engaged in an energetic Disco-styled dance, featuring rather explicitly, a great deal of pelvic thrusts, because well, what Disco dance is complete without fervorous pelvic thrusts, right?
I was busting my groove with great diligence when she calmly told me, without looking up from the papers she was grading, "No, Crankshaft. For the last time, I won't go to the party with you." I wish to clarify, this wasn't to say that she wasn't planning to attend the party. Surely no, this was to say that she was planning to attend the party, just not with me.
I put my hands on my hips, looked to the left and pelvic thrusted to the left, then looked to my right, and pelvic thrusted to my right, before stretching my arms to my sides, where I rolled a wave motion back and forth down them, and spun around. I finished the spin by stopping suddenly, and tossing a yo-yo out, and pulling it back up, which I did two or three more times before slipping it in my pocket. I'm not exactly sure when the yo-yo got into my hand, but I finished the whole thing by snapping and pointing at Laya with both hands. "Oh good," I said, "You've rejected my request for the last time. With any luck, all you've got left now is acceptance!"
She looked up at me. She was wearing her reading glasses, which were now sitting very low on her nose, over which, she was looking at me. She was looking at me over her nose, too; as well, she was looking at me over several items on her desk, but primarily, over her glasses, I think. They were the highest vertical obstacle over which she had to look over. I rolled my head away from her, maintaining eye contact, and nodding a few times. She said, "Crankshaft, in the past answer has always been no, the answer is still no, and the answer will always be no. I cannot emphasize this enough: the answer is no."
I did some mental arithmetic She said "no" four times, which is like -1 to the power of four, so -1 times -1 is 1, times -1 again is -1, and multiplied by -1 a last time, brings us back to 1, which means, YES! I jumped and pointed accusingly at her, while shouting, "Ah-HA!" She was about to say something, but I interrupted her, saying, "You said no four times, which is like -1 to the power of four, so negative one times negative one is one, times negative one again, is negative one, and multiplied by negative one a last time, brings us back to one, which to me, means, 'When shall I pick you up?'" I took a giant step toward her desk, and sat on the corner of it, where I opted to stare at her obsequiously.
She went back to grading papers, and said, "No. There, that's five."
I jumped up and shook my fist at the ceiling for no reason other than to make a dramatic pose, while I shouted, "No! Foiled again!"
While I was shaking my fist, I heard her say, "Don't you have a class right now?"
Indeed, I did. The time was @345 beats, and I had an afternoon class at @350. "Indeed, I do," I said, abruptly stopping my fist shaking, which, by that time, I had forgot why I was doing it.
So I went to class, and K-420's questions evidenced that he was learning what I was teaching him, causing me to enact my happy dance five or six times before the bell rang, warning my students that they could leave. Strangely enough though, this once full class, with forty-five students now included only twelve, ever since Akolyte's massacre down the street. As far as I know, there are two other classes that were struck this hard, one of them being Professor Tamaguchi's Calculus at @200 beats, and Professor Russel's Grammar 4A class at @500 beats. For some reason, it seems that most of our students were in Akolyte's path of destruction that afternoon. Professor Tamaguchi was unfortunate enough to break his thumb and index finger on his right hand that day as well, in a separate, unrelated incident that has since made it very complicated for him to write on his white board.
As my twelve students stood to leave, I pointed dramatically at Kataclyn, and started to wiggle the fingers of both my hands at her, as though trying to cast a spell. She looked at me worriedly as I did this. "Sir?" she meekly asked.
I continued to wiggle my fingers at her, and began pulling my left arm back and forth as I did it. Then I abruptly stopped, stared at her blankly with my arms dangling at my side and said, "I'd like to have a word with you, Kataclyn." I was a little worried about her work. Her papers had watermarks on them that I didn't make.
She looked down, clutching her books to her chest and said, "All right..."
I sat behind the class's teacher's desk, and folded my fingers together as she came down the steps toward me. I tried to look dignified, but I believe I may have overshot my goal, not looking uber-dignified, but rather, perhaps uptight and nervous. Next time, I will endevor to refrain from flaring my nostrils in dignification.
When she got to the desk, she looked up at me, and asked, "Is there a problem, Professor Differential?"
I gestured toward the chair on the other side of the desk. "Please, sit down." She sat and obeyed. Her hair was tied back, and she wore a headband with two projections at top, giving the impression of cat-like ears. Her otherwise gentle face was tampered with by a large scar down her right cheek, which I always thought was rather unfortunate.
I stared at her with no clear expression, while making these observations. We were sitting there for a good half a beat, before she finally said, "Professor? Is there something wrong?"
I took this as a cue to loosen up, so I leaned back, and threw my feet up on the desk. As I picked my teeth with the fingernail on my pinky finger, something happened to me that has never happened before, in my entire, years-long history of leaning back with my feet up on the desk. I was greatly confused when it happened, too. Just a whole, entire moment of, what the hell? Just a big box of it dumped on me as though it were a thing that could be put into a big box for the purpose of being dumped on me. Tangentially, I'll mention that Laya tells me that I fail at similes.
As I picked at my teeth, I fell. The chair just leapt from underneath me, and I was on the ground, head bang against the tile. Kataclyn jumped up, dropping her books on the floor, to look over the desk at me. "Professor! Are you all right?"
I scrambled strugglesomely to get up, repositioned my chair, sat in it, and fell again. When I got up this time, I grabbed the chair and clumsily threw it aside, knocking over the trash can by the desk, and spilling Overmind's half-full soda from the nearby cafe all over the floor. I was obliged to ignore this though, and I just looked at Kataclyn. Kataclyn was looking back at me sorrowfully, as though it were all somehow her fault. I regained my composure as dramatically as I could, and after straightening my garments, I gestured and said, "It's all right, I'm all right, I choose now," I paused for effect, "to stand."
She stood and continued to watch me. "Please," I said, "sit back down. Please." Again, she obeyed.
"So," she questioned, "What is this all about?"
I gestured around the room and said, "Well, y'know, you and your group come to learn, and I and my group come to teach; to impart our knowledge to you and your group. I think it's a pretty good arrangement, myself."
This left her confused. "Sir?" she said, "What are you trying to say?"
While she said this, my head drifted toward an open window for no particular reason, and I had begun picking my teeth, again. I jerked my head back toward her and said, "Huh? I was trying to say something?" She looked at me again, confused. "Oh, yeah," I commented, then proceeded to say, "I'm going to the faculty Christmas party. I'm going stag."
This did not clear up her confusion. I hung my head and complained, "Laya refuses to heed my pleas." I made noises as though I were crying.
"So... you're asking me for advice?" she asked.
Then it struck me that she was the only female student in this particular class, and therefore it would be logical for me to ask advice from her, if I am to ask a student from this class. I jumped and gestured stiffly with my right index finger, "Yes! I am asking you for advice!"
She looked at me worried again, and said, "You do know that I killed my husband, right?"
I stopped gesturing stiffly, and let my arms drop to my side again. I thought about this for a minute, and said, "Well... I'm sure he deserved it."
"Yes," she agreed, "That's what the courts decided..."
"See, I told you I was right. Always trust your teachers."
She began to get up, and apologized, "I'm sorry, sir, but you really don't want me to be involved in your personal life."
I shrugged. "That's all right. I wanted to talk to you about your work, anyway."
She stopped, and looked at me. "Sir? Are my grades declining? I'll try harder, I promise."
I shrugged, and said, "Well, no, your grades are fine. In fact, out of the twelve in this class, you've got the second highest score this semester, even before, we, er, lost," I did the math in my head real quick, widely mouthing the numbers I was thinking, and also took the time to calculate the cube root of Pi to thirty-three decimal places, and finished the sentence with, "Thirty three students."
"What's wrong, then?" she asked.
I pulled her most recent paper out of my brief case, and set it on the desk. With a pencil that I procured from-- I'm not sure where... Thin air, as far as I know. Anyway, with a pencil, I circled some wrinkly spots, and showed it to her. "These have been appearing on your papers, as of late." Then I told her that I checked on her previous paper, and all these water-marked spots tasted salty (and I did taste all of them), and she seemed mildly disturbed by this.
"You tasted my homework??" she asked. She was full of questions that afternoon.
"Yes!" I shouted. "Kataclyn, I absolutely need to know: Are my homework assignments making you depressed? Please, tell me the truth, because if they're bringing you to tears, then I've gotta do something about that." Naturally, this was the only logical conclusion that I was able to come to. I walked around the desk, dropped to my knees in front of her, and then begged her, "Please! I don't mean to do it! I don't mean to make you cry! I just like to keep my students on their toes!"
She shook her head, and said, "No... No, sir, it's not you..."
I stood and said, "Oh, well, I guess it's okay, then."
"It's just that..."
"That?" I said, then shook my fist at nothing in particular, "Damn you, That! I'll get you some day!"
"Nevermind," she said. "Listen, I'm sorry, but I've gotta go get ready for my Grammar class." She started to rush off toward the door.
I called at her, "But what should I do about Laya?"
She turned around and walked backward, still toward the door, "I don't know! Just be nice to her, I guess!"
I pondered this for a moment, but soon had to gather my stuff and leave, when Professor Hawkins appeared to teach his programming glass. I saluted him mightily, and left the room before he discovered the spilled soda.
I sat back down in my office. It was around @480 beats or so. Laya would still be in class until @500 beats. Experimentally, I leaned back in my chair, and put my feet on my desk. I picked my teeth with the fingernail of my pinky finger. I didn't fall. I tried picking my teeth more vigorously, and still, I didn't fall. I tried picking my teeth more vigorously, yet, furiously thrusting my fingernail between my incisors and growling slightly, but I hastily stopped and jerked up-right, when I happened to have the thought that I was picking my teeth with the same finger I use to pick my ear.
That was a thought. My right ear called to my pinky finger. I could hear it, vividly. "Pinky finger!" it called, "Come to me! Clean me!"
My finger began to move to it. My left hand grabbed my right hand and shouted, "No! Don't do it! It's a trap!"
"No! I must!" my finger insisted.
My ear just nodded and called, "Yes! Come to me, Right-hand Pinky Finger! Come and harvest my copious deposits of wax!"
I grimaced at the whole ordeal. It was not pretty. My left arm struggled with my right arm mightily, but alas, in the end, it was unable to prevent the inescapable. My right pinky penetrated my right ear canal, and wiggled about for a while. I suspect that this may be the very reason why the forces of evolution saw fit to give humanoids pinky fingers. Someday, left hand, you will win. Some day.
In fact, it didn't happen that way. There were no words spoken, the dialog was all understood to be occurring.
By the time @500 came around, I was starting to doze off. I had the thought that I should go for a walk, and I started to walk toward the door to the hallway, but I stopped, when I heard a pair of voices. One was Laya's, the other was, I believe, one of her students. Overhearing this conversation revolutionized my life. It was really only a little revolution, but it was a revolution, nevertheless. Viva la revolucion!
I heard the student say, "Why don't you just file sexual harassment charges on him? Surely, that'll make him stop, and even if it doesn't, then someone else will."
I initially reacted to this thinking, "Gasp! Someone's sexually harassing Laya? I'll hurt him!" I then contemplated a string of curse words directed at the scoundrel.
Then Laya said, "Well, Crankshaft, while he may be a little unorthodoxed, is a brilliant teacher and a valuable asset to the Physics department." I was stunned. They were talking about me!
They stopped right outside the door to Laya's office and the student insisted, "That's no excuse! What he's doing is still wrong!"
Laya sighed, and more quietly, informed her, "Look, honestly," she paused. I imagine that she looked around first, then she said, "Don't tell anyone this, but I actually kinda like it. I don't know why, but he's just kinda funny sometimes." She started talking normally again, as she said, "And besides, it's not as though he's groping me or otherwise grabbing me inappropriately, anyway."
I stepped back from my door, and pondered. I thought to myself, "You know what this means, don't you?" To which, I responded, "Pi r squared?" This gave me pause for thought, but I came to the conclusion that this equation has already been proven, and there would forever be nothing I could do about it. You win again, this time Pi. You win again, but I swear that someday, I will uncover your irrational plans to foil us, and put us away to be eaten at a later date! The power of Trigonometry compels you! Hissing noise goes here.
Setting my life's new secret mission aside, I reminded myself that she said she "like" and "it" in the same sentence, with the word "don't" hesitating until the next sentence to appear, and I'm pretty sure that "it" was referring to me. Wait, am I an 'it'? I suppose that I'm a 'he' but not a 'she'. I'm certainly an object in the universe of some sort, and I'm not clear that being a living object of some sort in the universe automatically disqualifies one as being an 'it'. I do, however, disregard that this lumps me in the same category with my arch-enemy, irrational numbers (and Pi, their great geometric king), so that I can focus on the important thing.
When I came to the important thing, my eyes widened and my jaw opened. I jumped and did my happy dance. The important thing was this: Laya stated that she kinda likes me. New hope and fervor await! It could very well be that I won't have to attend the party stag. Maybe I'd be able to attend it like, mustang or pinto, or stud or something. I don't properly understand what horses have to do with parties and how they are attended. I do, however, enjoy thrusting my chest out and proclaiming, "I am Stag." The only thing that could make it better would be to have the matching double saber.
So I sat down to work out how to take a big heavy machine and integrate it into the empty shell of an even bigger, heavier machine, as I had forgotten that I was going to take a walk, and remembered that I was trying to work out the details on this project, which had little to do with Pi. Then I remembered I was going to take a walk, so I considered where I would be walking. I chose to start in Laya's office, the reasons for which would not be apparent to her, and revealed to even me, only through extraneous exploration.
I opened the door into her office, and walked in. I began to strut. I strut passed her desk. I strut behind her desk. I went around for another pass in front of her desk, turned around, and passed in front again, then returned to my office. Laya never looked up from the lesson plan she was working on.
After my refreshing strut, I returned to my desk, and began working out details on the previously mentioned project, which deals very little with Pi. I looked up at my perpetual motion device, which I recently put together. The secret to making it work turned out to be duct tape. It's a precision device, but no proper sealant would do the job right, so I duct taped it instead. I also had to place a rolled up wad of it, hidden in an inside corner to adjust the local gravity curves within. I flipped it over a week ago, and it hasn't stopped since. I only wish that it made a sound, maybe a tick or something, but I couldn't allow any energy whatsoever to escape from it, if it were to keep spinning. Really, it's a continuing experiment. Someday, I will find a use for it.
Thinking about that, I got up, and poked my head into Laya's office. "Laya?" I asked.
"No," she said in anticipation.
I ignored this, and asked her, "When does Someday come?"
She answered back, "Sunday is the last day of the week, Crankshaft. After Saturday and before Monday."
"No no no, not Sunday. Someday." I emphasized the M as opposed to the N.
"Someday?"
"Someday."
She looked up at me, as though to ask for help, so I rushed over there, knelt down and held her hand. "Just... Whenever you want, I guess, Crankshaft. Eventually."
I looked down, and considered this with a frown and concerned stare at the ground. "I see," I said.
She sweetly said to me, "Crankshaft..."
I looked up to her, hopefully. Visions of getting kissed floated through my head. "Yes?" I answered.
"Let go of my hand," she requested of me.
I looked at the hand I was holding. I examined it carefully. Then I observed out loud, "Your right pinky finger is devoid of earwax."
She pulled her hand from mine, leaving me to examine the space that it once occupied. The only thing special about said space that I happened to observe, was that it was previously occupied by Laya's hand. Also, in retrospect, I believe it was not being occupied by Pi, which I suppose is always a good sign.
I stood and straightened my garments. A dozen ideas flashed through my head, exploding like a line of balloons run over by a train. This happens to me from time to time, actually. Several concurrent lines of thoughts will suddenly develop into great ideas in series, one after another over an instant. It's quite a load just choosing one to focus on and talk about.
I chose the most regal pose I could muster, but quickly decided that no properly regal pose should incorporate holding your crotch, so I stuffed that hand into my lapels, and stuck my chest out, instead. "Laya," I began, "I understand that you have refused to attend the Christmas party with me, but I would like to ask you something else, instead." It was taking a great deal of effort to not burst out about the apparent uselessness of a perpetual motion device, but the plan seemed to be working, nevertheless. I had her attention, now.
She set down her pen, then turned in her chair to face me properly, with her hands in her lap. "You have my attention, Crankshaft." She had her reading glasses hanging in on the edge of the dainty cliff that would be the tip of her nose, so she could look over them at me, above the perhaps dozen other things she was also, in fact, looking over to see me.
Concentrating, to continue on this plan to not diverge off onto some unrelated topic, an arduous task that I don't really understand others being so adept at, I continued, "May I try to convince you otherwise, tonight, over dinner? Privately. We can dine at your place or mine, or any location of your choosing."
She tilted her head. "Crankshaft," she asked, "Did you just speak three complete sentences, and another too short to be grammatically correct, without diverging onto an irrelevant subject?" I was about to agree, but she quickly said, "Don't answer that, I realize the question doesn't help." She looked at me for a moment, then continued, "Crankshaft, I don't think I've ever seen you so serious about one thing since," she paused, "Well, in a while." She was thinking of Akolyte's rampage, I'm sure, but she tries not to bring that up when unnecessary. She lost some students then, too, and it was a really hard time for her.
I opened my mouth to say something, but she jumped up and stretched to touch a finger to my lips, "No, Crankshaft, don't say a word. I'm afraid you'll spoil it." She brought her hand down, and straightened her dress, before looking up at me and finally answering, "Very well, Crankshaft. I will concede to your invitation for tonight."
I took a step away to get room, and commenced my happy dance. While I was flailing about, she sat back down at her desk to return to reviewing papers, and said, "But you're not cooking. I've seen that nuclear mini-fridge you've got in your office, and frankly, I'm terrified of what you might have at home."
I abruptly halted my dance, bringing my arms to hang limply at my sides, and turned to her, asking, "So... You are cooking, then?"
"Absolutely not," she replied. Continuing without looking up from her work, she explained, "We'll go over to Che Altair, in the Pinkal district. We can get a high-backed booth there that'll do a decent job of shielding us from public view." I'd like to comment here, that it's also quite expensive. She tagged onto it, looking up at me from the corner of her eye, and pausing in her work to say this, "And you're paying."
Ah, the price you pay, the price you pay.
We left the building two beats apart, and took separate taxis. She also made the reservations for @650, providing a reasonable amount of time to get some grading done and still arrive on time. In fact, she arrived right on schedule and I got there at @655, after stopping to examine a few windows and determine exactly why I would not be buying them. First off, they were already installed. Laya tells me that I am still inept at window shopping.
Che Altair was dimly lit, and carried a dark red motif. To be precise, the tables themselves were lit in moody, silvery light, carefully projected to allow a minimum to spill outside of area immediately surrounding each table. The dark red carpet featured an elaborate floral pattern, manifested by black outlines. All the tables were revealed from high-backed booths on only one side, and corner-booths, only at one corner. The booths were upholstered in dark red, with a pattern similar to that on the carpet, and the tables themselves were a nice, imitation mahogany A hostess brought me to Laya, who was in a booth.
She must have applied some make-up on her way to the restaurant. She's normally quite pretty, but the way she sat there, looking over her menu, shiny, red, pursed lips, tapping her chin with her index finger, really just sent a shiver down my back, and I almost fell. After I apologized to the hostess that lead me to the table for grabbing her shoulder so abruptly, I sat down and slid in close to Laya.
She looked at me from the menu, and smiled. "Good evening, Crankshaft," she greeted me. We were off to a good start.
At that point, I think being stunned by her preparations for the evening got some wires crossed. I thought, "Great Light, you are looking gorgeous tonight," but I said, "Every object in the universe is attracted to every other object in the universe in proportion to its mass, and inversely proportional to the distance between them, so by delicately balancing dense materials around the interior of a box, in carefully calculated locations, and then creating a vacuum within that box, the introduction of a sufficient amount of catalyst energy will allow a pendulum to swing in circles indefinitely." I meant to say what I thought, and to think what I said, so at the very least, I explained these details of my perpetual motion device in a passionate, awestruck manner.
She looked at me worriedly, and I thought, "I'm sorry, I meant to compliment you on your appearance, rather than explain the physics of perpetual motion devices," and instead apologized, "They should make a movie from The Guild. They could give it a larger budget for sets and special effects, and include the full-frontal nudity they've thus far shied away from."
Her eyebrow raised, and I tried again, thinking, "Egad, I'm still doing it!" This was accompanied by a verbalized and subsequently halted, "If Hildebears averagely weigh in at 360 kilograms--" I sounded quite shocked to be saying this, and stopped myself. I next lifted a finger to indicate that I wanted her to give me a moment. I had to check and make sure that it was the right finger, too, as I was also, at that time, remembering an aggressive argument between two students in the quad earlier that day. It was, in fact, the correct finger, and not the one used by the young woman I had seen earlier that day, to express her feelings toward her now ex-boyfriend.
As I silenced and tried to straighten myself out, she said to me, "My goodness, Crankshaft, you're making even less sense than usual, tonight. What happened?"
Confident that I finally had sorted out internal monologue from speech, I explained, "I'm sorry, but your beauty this evening must have shocked me so much, that I got my internal monologue switched around with my speech." Honest. This is what happened.
Laya took her glasses off, and placed a hand to her chest, as she engaged in a breathy gasp. "Crankshaft," placing her other hand on my wrist, she gasped, "That was," she paused, and I thought she was going to say something not entirely different involving how incredibly flattered she was, but she went on to say, in an impressed tone, "Incredibly slick! You almost had me on that one. Whoever you learned that from must be quite the ladies' man." With a smirk, she slapped my knee, playfully.
I looked back at her helplessly, and insisted, "No, really, that's what happened." I never did convince her.
Aside from costing me in excess of ten-thousand mesetas, the dinner went well. We talked about our classes, and we talked about the university. We also had some very nice wine, which I discretely went easy on, as I didn't want to spoil the evening with my usual drunken behavior, typically involving flailing and yelling incoherent jumbles. Laya, however, while she clearly wasn't trying to get drunk, was neither holding back. Admittedly, when I recognized this, I chose to try to use it to my advantage, and ordered another bottle of wine.
After the second bottle came, I thanked the waitress, and filled Laya's glass, again. While I poured, I took the reins of the conversation, and steered it toward the two of us.
"So," I said as I returned her glass to her, "Why is it that you make like you don't like me all the time?"
She took the glass, and swished the wine around in it a couple of times, before smiling and replying, "I don't dislike you, Crankshaft. How dare you even suggest it!"
"Go on. Elaborate," I eagerly responded.
She took another sip of her wine, and explained, "Truth be told, I think you're really funny. There've been days when I've gotten home and laughed for ten beats at a time, because of something you did. I don't know if you do it on purpose, but you really make me laugh, and it's all I can do just to ignore you and get some work done."
"So, that makes you angry, then?"
"No, not really. Usually I only get angry with you when you do or suggest something inappropriate." Apparently I say a lot of inappropriate things.
I went ahead and downed a glass of wine, and when I put the glass down, my food was before me, and our conversation came and went as we were each distracted with our expensive meals. Eventually, I got also it out of her that she is often worried about being seen doing romantic things in public with me, because I typically will suddenly engage in some awkward behavior.
I thought for certain, that I had her convinced, until the lady with the desert cart arrived. Laya was saying, "I think that maybe your behavior tonight has proven to me that you can behave without having problems, Crankshaft."
Before I could say anything in response, however, the lady with the desert cart asked us, "Would you two like some pie?"
I had been holding back all night. Now, I was being beckoned. It was welling up inside me. The urge to react was strong, and I could not stop it. I pointed at her, and exclaimed, "Pie?! You need Pi to calculate the circumference, area, surface area and volume of pie!" This startled her enough to make her jump, and nearly lose the contents of her cart onto the floor.
I realized I was trying to stand, and forced myself back into a sitting position. Then I observed my right arm still pointing and shaking, so I dispatched my left hand to grab it, and bring it under control; which, through a great deal of effort on my left hand's part, it did.
I looked back to Laya, who was staring at me, pale-faced, and as calmly as I could, I looked back at the lady, and I asked, calmly and coolly, "This pie, of which you speak... It is cut into triangle-shaped wedges?"
She had recovered from my startling of her, and after smoothing out her black skirt, she nodded, and replied, "Yes, sir. It is."
Coolly, suavely, I looked to Laya again, and I said, "In that case, we'll each have a slice." In my mind, I was screaming, "YES! YEAH! Take that Pi! Your delectable, phonetically identical minion has been defeated with Triangles! The power of Trigonometry compels you!" Ha ha! This time, Pi, you have not won! This battle ended in your defeat!
I walked her home, that night. It turns out that her apartment is several blocks away from my own, but nearly in the same neighborhood. While we were at the door to her building, she had me lean down so she could kiss my cheek. I had not previously been aware that a simple kiss on the cheek could have the same level of mental impact as a sledge hammer to your face. For an instant, all my thoughts stopped. All at once, my mind was empty, except for the memory of that kiss. That instant seemed days long; that eerie silence that jumped in on my mental riot, and the cool evaporation of the moisture from her lips on my cheek.
Then she whispered in my ear, and in my mind, I hurdled so far and hard, that I nearly missed her message. Her warm breath on my virgin ear raised the hair on the back of my neck, as she told me, "I had a great time, Crankshaft. I will go to the Christmas party with you."
Feeling frozen at first, I stood up straight, with my mouth wide open, as I seemed to have lost all control of it, and there was nothing drifting through my mind to take over it. She opened the door, and said, "Good night, Crankshaft. I'll see you in the morning."
She shut the door behind her, and I just stood there. The following fireworks display in my mind started slowly, as I began to regain progressively finer motor skills. I slowly realized what I had done: I just got Laya to agree to attend the Christmas Party with me! I did my happy dance, several times, but I didn't feel it was enough, so I invented a new happy dance with more flailing about, which I now call my Hyper-Happy dance, and I danced that several times.
I walked, ran, skipped and hopped home, after that. Since then, my usual collection of ongoing, idling thoughts has resumed, but I doubt I will ever forget that moment when Laya stopped it all.
Tonight, I'll be picking her up, and we'll attend the party. I do hope that there will be dancing.