Charm School, Part Two | When the Professor Met the Hottie

Well, like I said, Vic and I became fast friends — skirt-chasing buddies — in the fall of 2007. And that came as a result of a dramatic break-up with my fiancé.

On a Sunday afternoon in October, I came-to, in more ways than one. First, I awakened with a hangover, vaguely remembering the previous night — that I had attended a literary discussion of The Postman Always Rings Twice at the Harold Washington Library with my fellow English teachers, Sarah and Izzy; and that there had been cake and coffee afterward, during which I had a pleasant chat with the Humanities Department chair, Dr. Rutter.

I was supposed to have been accompanied by my fiancé, the lovely young Eva Parker, whose pedigree excited me nearly as much as her body. She is a descendant of one of my heroes, Francis Parker, who was one of the founding fathers of progressive education in America in the late 1800s.

Francis W. Parker, 1837-1902

Progressive education distinguishes itself from traditional education in that the former emphasizes the personal, practical application of knowledge. In other words, we learn by doing. It’s not enough to learn data; people have to be taught how to use that data, and how that data can benefit them in their daily lives. And people have to learn the social skills necessary to integrate their life goals into society as a whole.

Eva claims to have been one of my students in the late 90s when I was teaching 11th-grade American Lit at (Where else?) the Francis Parker School in Lincoln Park. But I don’t remember her. Sure enough, she’s in the yearbook — a wan, wispy blond girl; nothing like the radiant debutante I met in the summer of 2006 at the Women’s Athletic Club. And by the way, if you’ve never been to the WAC on the Magnificent Mile, it’s a real treat. It looks like the set of a Woody Allen period film — French classical mansion; imagine movie stars and mobsters waving cocktails and cigarettes at each other. My favorite room is the pine paneled library on the second floor, with a fireplace and books that probably haven’t been touched (except by a feather duster) since the place was built a hundred years ago.

I first saw Eva (that I can remember) at the WAC’s annual Mid-Summer’s Eve Soiree as the Alan Gresik Swing Shift Orchestra finished its first set. She turned away from her dance partner — her father, I think — her black and white fit-and-flare cocktail dress doing both extremely well — by that, I mean fitting AND flaring — the kind of dress Grace Kelly wore in To Catch a Thief when she met Cary Grant in the lobby of the Hotel Carlton in Cannes to go to the beach.

Grace Kelly in 1954. But this is exactly what Eva looked like when I met her; dress, jewelry, and hair.

But anyway . . . at that moment, on the marble dance floor of the WAC’s penthouse ballroom, under a giant crystal chandelier, 23 year-old Eva Parker turned just in time to find not Cary Grant smiling, tanned and composed, but a clumsy college professor tucking his eyes back into their sockets and picking his jaw up off the floor. Actually, I dropped my drink at that moment — SMASH! — right after the last brassy high C, and right before the crowd roar. So it went like this: Ta-da . . . smash . . . woo-hoo! The partiers applauded the band; the band applauded me. I bowed like a French courtier. Eva laughed her ass off.

But if you really want to cause a stir as a guest at a high society event in Chicago, try cleaning up your own mess. It just isn’t done! One spiffy fellow actually seemed embarrassed by my attempt to pick up the shards. “Don’t do that! That’s what we pay them for.”

I followed his nod to a row of white gloved, white jacketed black and Hispanic young men. “That’s okay, sir,” said one. “We’ll take care of it.” And they were on it!

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Dr. Rutter: “Boo lef meh hangin’ fo a hoodrat!”

Me: “Ah ain’t yo boo. ‘side, crackah don’t need no crack; homeboy feen fo da lovebox!”

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Eva: “Hi, Mr. Watson.”

Me: “Hi.”

Eva: “Eva Parker.”

Me: “Please, call me Oren.”

And we were off and running. I gave her a ride home after the event. We made out in the car. She gave me her number and made it clear that she wanted to spend more time with me.

I attended the WAC soiree in the first place as a guest of Dr. Rutter. T. Orville Rutter, the Fifth. (The “T” stands for Thadeus.) I call him T. Orville (or just T.) behind his back. (Nobody calls him Tad, by the way.) T. Orville attended the event as a guest of one of the Pritzkers. And if you’re not familiar with the Pritzker family, you can look them up on your own time; they get more than enough attention here in Chicago.

Madame Pritzker kept calling me Jonathan, who is T. Orville’s fiancé; who couldn’t make it, or who just plain ole didn’t want to come because he’s a simple guy (“simpleton,” as T. calls him) from Michigan who can’t stand putting on a tuxedo. And I accepted the invitation knowing full well that people would assume I was Dr. Rutter’s rutting companion. But frankly, my dear, I didn’t give a damn, because I like T. He’s the only other person I know who can talk at length about medieval mores, which was the subject of my impending doctoral dissertation.

The WAC Library

Back at work on Monday morning, T. Orville and I indulged in the following email exchange:

[T. and I enjoy our Ebonics. We’re both fans of slang in general. And nothing tickles our students more than when pale old guys (i.e., older than 30) be buggin’.]

Dr. Rutter: “Boo lef meh hangin’ fo a hoodrat!”

Translation: “My date abandoned me for a promiscuous female.”

Me: “Ah ain’t yo boo. ‘side, crackah don’t need no crack; homeboy feen fo da lovebox!”

Translation: “I wasn’t your date. Besides, this Caucasian does not desire another man’s buttocks; he craves vagina.”