by Shari Dinkins

Zimmerman. He walks into the classroom, stalks really. Swings behind the podium without looking up. He is clutching a wizened copy of Dubliners. A student behind me moans, a soft exhale. I watch the instructor as he sets down a yellow legal pad. A worn British-style suit, stovepipe pants. He leans forward, his body creating a “v” with the wooden podium. He has hair like the guy in Eraserhead. He starts to speak. I blink, shift my legs, cross my right leg over the left. Alpha leg. And I am interrupted by his talk. Literature. He does not ask us—he commands us to answer. I am dumbfounded. This is not what they told me, and my futile complaint is drowned out by his voice. Finally a student in the back row mumbles, “Ah, masturbation?” Giggles start...immediately cut off by Zimmerman’s look.

“Yes,” he says and I can hear the effort behind me as thirteen students scribble “masturbation” in their notebooks.

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