Disco Marxist Dance Party

Draft 2 September 2009

One day my hands stopped working. I’m not too sure what happened. I was sitting in the library, flipping through a book of poems by e.e. cummings, when my fingers refused to lift another page. A little alarmed, but not in any amount of pain, I rose from the table and made my way outside, my hands falling limply to my side. The air was warm and damp and my skin tingled in anticipation of a storm. The world around me bustled with life. People everywhere ran to their destinations, heavy bags slung over their shoulders, eyes cast down to the ground. I was the only idle on in sight, watching all of the scrunched up faces passing me. I almost wanted to make myself more comfortable on the murky pavement, spread my skirt out and turn into a concrete angel, but decided that would be too strange even for me. Instead I stood in the middle of this crowded walkway and raised my arms in front of me, staring at my hands, which flapped to my wrists like flags being beaten by the wind.

It’s not that I wasn’t used to parts of my body ceasing to work; ever since I was a much smaller girl, parts of me occasionally decided to lend themselves a small vacation – a hand or an eye or a foot or an ear would suddenly stop working as they were supposed to. This I was used to, this I almost expected at least once a week to happen, but it never happened in such large proportions. One hand might refuse to work but usually the other hand kept its most honourable position of being my hand and gave me no grief.

I had a very big problem.

This, of course, meant that things could only get worse, as they always did once one big problem presented itself. Deciding quickly, I kept my limp hands in front of my face and ran through the crowds at full speed. I was determined to get to my car, even if I had no idea what I would do once I got there. That’s when I ran – flappy hands first – into Lucifer.

“What the hell!” An angry voice came up to me from the depths of the black pavement. I lowered my hands the smallest bit and peeked over them. Yup, there was Lucifer, my very surly English professor, lying amongst a snow storm of pristine white papers that quickly attracted all the dirt on the ground.

“Oops.” It never occurred to me that merely standing there with my hands in front of my face and uttering no words other than “oops” would make matters more uncomfortable. Angrily, my English professor stood, muttering things like, “why the hell do I bother” and “can’t believe he day I’m having” as he brushed the dirt and damp off his backside.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. His head snapped up to stare at me, his eyes wide and the veins popping out of his youthful neck, adding at least thirty years to his face. Not that he was a very attractive man in the first place; his brows were permanently furrowed, as hey say, and his square face boasted a rather unpleasant shade of pale yellow.

“Sorry?!” he shouted, waving his hands wildly, gesturing at the fallen papers around him, “Do you think ‘sorry’ is going to assuage all of those brats when they start whining about their precious papers being soiled and sullied? I can not believe the day I’m having!” He began picking up the sodden writings of whatever he tortured his students with most recently and I, aware how ridiculous I seemed to be just standing there, began to inch away slowly.

Before I could even break into a run, Lucifer turned and extended one gravel covered hand in my direction. “Don’t think you’re going anywhere, kid. You are going o help me sort through this mess you made. You can start by grabbing as much of this shit off the ground as you can.”

I nodded but remained motionless as Lucifer frantically pulled together the last bits of paper into one heaping, foul looking pile. His work finished, he turned to me, his eyes still trying to escape from his head. I smiled politely, hoping he would let me leave so I could tend to my situation. Instead he used his dirty hand to gently grab my arm and rather forcefully pushed me into the direction of the English department, a rotten brick building that was only moments away from collapsing in on itself. Into his office he dragged me, throwing the pile of papers on his desk and me into a chair. He stood over me, arms folded, and coolly demanded of me, “And what were you doing that it was so necessary to barrel over everything in your path?”

What could I say? My hands sat folded clumsily in my lap, motionless and completely devoid of any feeling. I looked at him. He looked right back. Finally I sighed and said, “I have nothing to say. Can I go? I have some pressing business to attend to.”

Lucifer laughed wickedly. “Do you really think I’m going to buy that crap for a second? Where could a skinny little monster like you have to go that’s so unbelievably important?”

He had me there. I practically lived on the campus of F of U. It suited me much better than staying at home with my sad white walls and droves of books. But still, I couldn’t do anything for him in my current state. I stood to leave, but Lucifer pushed me down again, determined I should stay. He spun me in his chair to face his desk, his hand remaining firmly on my shoulder.

“Go ahead,” he said, “Start sorting through the pile. If you’re lucky, you’ll finish by night. Of course, most everyone will be gone by then, but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble. You better get going, then.” His hands gave my shoulder another threatening squeeze and he left before another syllable could fall from my mouth. The door was closed. With a great sigh, I sadly accepted the fact that I was stuck.

My hands serving no real, useful function, I set myself to memorizing my surroundings. The “office” was really nothing more than a glorified utility closet. Actually, utility closets were probably bigger. A light bulb hung from the ceiling In true movie-cliché fashion, casting an eerie little glow on the rest of the area, which was barely furnished. A tiny desk, the on in front of me, seated a clunky computer that looked older than my own sweet eighteen years. The pile of sooty papers laid precariously next to the computer, much of it already having fallen to the spotted carpet. In the corner was a faded, musty bowler sitting on top of a ratty piece of canvas looking material that I supposed served as a trench coat.

I had a feeling I was going to spend quite a long time with that old coat. In fact I was contemplating giving it a name when the door creaked oped and a pair of eyes peeked through.

What a day for strangers.

“Can… can I help you?” Maybe if this stranger opened the door wide enough, I would be able to escape into the comfort of my car and figure out what to do with my hands.

The door opened another couple of inches and the eyes sprouted hair, a nose, even a mouth. The mouth, which was pink and far too soft for the voice that came out of it, opened slightly and slowly and out came these words: “You aren’t professor Lucifer”.

Staring and entranced by this stranger’s mouth, I was only capable of shaking my head in agreement with the statement.

“Do you know where he is?” the mouth and hair and eyes pushed their way through the door and emerged as a whole human being, a slender, tall figure dressed in soft grays – to go, I assumed, with the gray of his eyes. “I kind of need to talk to him.” He stood in the doorway, his mouth pursed. Again, I shook my head. “Do you at least know when he’ll be back?” His voice, as pure as it came to my ears, sounded angry and sad.

“I have no idea. Soon, maybe?” I began to spread my hands in that simple “I don’t know” gesture, but remembered my plight at the very last moment. Quickly and with a small thud they fell back in my lap.

“Well,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the next, “Is it okay if I wait here with you?”

My mind raced with intense images of debauchery until I remembered that I was going to leave. But I couldn’t unless this stranger left and neglected to close the door. I couldn’t have another incident like the one I had with Lucifer. I needed to get to my car.

“Actually, no, it’s not okay. Lu… Professor Lucifer told me to let no one into his office. So you can just… “ I struggled to find the word I wanted; I didn’t want him to go, but for my plan to work there was no way he could stay. “Leave.” It finally spluttered out of my mouth. “You can just leave.” The mouth on the boy frowned and for a moment I could almost feel my heart break. Almost.

“Well, I don’t think I can leave,” his mouth told me, and my inner face rolled its eyes. “I mean, I would, but it’s really a very urgent matter. So if you don’t mind too much, I’m just going to make myself comfortable. OF course, you can always leave and let me wait in the chair.” And then he closed the door. My chance gone.

I really did roll my eyes this time, and kicked my feet on the floor, turning the chair away from the boy. What a day.

“Good,” the boy’s voice floated into my ears but from down on the floor this time. His legs shuffled, I assumed, as he did make himself comfortable, and I heard the arrhythmic tappa-tap-tap of a pen, an impatient sort of s.o.s. Again, his voice wafted up to me. “So you what’s your name? I don’t think I’ve seen you around campus before.”

My hands still folded neatly and uselessly in my lap, I turned again to face him. He was leering at me; I didn’t notice before and now that I did a shiver went up my spine. His hand was a blur and the rapping of the pen got louder still.

“Well, that makes two of us, then. I don’t think I’ve seen myself around campus, either.”

“What?” His mouth dropped in confusion. “What are you talking about? And what are you doing here alone, anyway?”

I sighed for the third time – a record for one day – and hung my head on the back of the chair. This certainly was getting difficult.