"Adam", She Said: A Useless Moral Tale

"Adam", the teacher said.

A pale American girl with pink gauze sleeves that hovered wavily over her reedy arms was sleeping peacefully when she was roused by the noise. She smiled, a bubbly one and perfectly coy at nothing in particular at the front of the classroom, felt confident that no one had seen her ruse, batted her heavily blackened eyelashes while twirling her flaxen hair, and fell back comfortably into the folds of her left arm. "Adam, Adam Ismailov?", the teacher repeated emphatically.

The teacher asked one more time. Loudly and visibly distressed, she clacked a tan leather stiletto heavily into the marble imitation, probably plastic or porcelain, floor and tweeted, "ADAM ISMAILOV... ARE YOU HERE?" It was striking to hear her voice. It was impacting to such a degree that it led this narrator to the belief that there is a school somewhere, some kind of highly specialized vocational academy, that teaches women how to chirp loudly. It wasn't its volume alone that gave it its power, however, it was its sheer ability to make you instantaneously irritated- reminding one tacitly and simultaneously of every minor discomfort encountered in daily life; such as clumpy airline seats and an unshakable itch. This narrator speculates that the academy in question is run by birds, very loud birds who have been expelled from the forests as disturbers of the peace, and, needing to support themselves in exile, turn to teaching humans their crafty tricks. Such was the character of this teacher's voice. A sonic boom of a chirp.

Adam Ismailov, meanwhile, was sitting in the very back of the classroom, listening to dubstep- loudly- and yet he still heard her clearly. The first time she called him, he didn't even consider the possibility of responding- it was instinctive in Adam Ismailov to ignore. The second time, he showed at the very least an unconscious willingness to respond by moving his left foot a bit while he bobbed his lank, greasy blonde hair to the bass. The third time, however, was impossible to ignore. He flinched violently as the supersonic chirp reached him, and his cover was blown.

The blonde American girl who had meanwhile been trying so charmingly to sleep on her left arm looked around grumpily, her left cheek swollen and pulsing with a thin sheet of blood, trying to figure out who Adam Ismailov was, so she could give him a bitchy look. Whoever he was, she thought, he was really annoying. Then, she realized, he might be cute, and decided it would be much more prudent to reserve judgment until she had seen who Adam Ismailov was.

Adam, knowing he had to respond this time, took off his headphones and said, "Yeah?"

The chirping teacher spun around rapidly on her heels towards him, and leaned forward to such a degree that even the slightest tap from a petite white mouse on the tip of her stiletto heel would most definitely topple her over onto her sharp, peaky face. "You?", she asked, her mouth formed tightly into a perfect little 0 of unpleasant surprise, "You're Adam Ismailov?"

"Yes," he said, not at all surprised that he was Adam Ismailov, and, in fact, completely unimpressed by it.

"Well," she said, with a tone of begrudging acceptance that it might indeed be possible that the slouchy looking, almost certainly drug addicted, young man before her was in fact Adam Ismailov, "I would like," following this statement with a very much rehearsed little Victorian bow that she decided the day earlier, after much deliberation and bubble gum chewing in rush hour traffic, would be the proper thing to do after saying the phrase 'I would like', "to enthusiastically congratulate you on the excellence of your paper."

Surveying the classroom with a perfectly half watermelon shaped smile, she continued, "Adam, Adam Ismailov, wrote the most wonderful paper. And, with his permission," once again bowing to Adam in the same way, this time quickly congratulating herself for deciding to bow twice without having made plans to do so, "I would like for you to read your work aloud to the class, if you have no objections." She looked invitingly at Adam Ismailov then, in the same way she might have looked at a young man of about his age ten years ago when inviting them to a little bout of casual sex on the veranda of her summer home. Adam caught the erotic intimations of her bows and looks, and would not be ashamed to admit publicly that he felt then a slight tingle in and around the tip of his penis. Though he had little interest in reading his paper to the class, he was enthralled with the possibility of fucking his teacher.

Adam Ismailov, being the wily sort, felt certain that if he was going to have any chance at all, he needed to read that day; and read with inspiration. He got up out of his desk, gripping the fake wooden tablet powerfully and using it to lunge, panther like, down the aisle to the front of the classroom. Landing next to her in nearly a single leap, he subtly, but noticeably, thrust his pelvis towards her purple paisley skirt that ended neatly above her knees. Adam Ismailov thought in about one second while glancing rapidly at his teachers knees the following: "I don't think knees can ever be very beautiful. Their claim to sensuality is a result of their position between two things that actually are incredibly sensual; the rounded calves, falling like a perfectly smooth milk waterfall into stiletto heels, and her thighs, more roughly hewn like hearty lumps of Italian bread, leading to exactly where I want to go." It must be emphasized here that Adam's peculiar associations between eroticism and food are not shared by the narrator, and this narrator struggles to find the relationship between Italian bread and a woman's thighs nearly as exciting as does Adam Ismailov.

Adam Ismailov, not being a very confident public speaker, and even less so when sex was on the line, asked his teacher meekly, "Where should I begin?"

Meanwhile, the girl who had been taking a nap on her left arm was very glad she had decided to wait before passing judgment on Adam Ismailov, and was now completely alert and focused on the front of the classroom. Standing there, messily dressed and bathed in a bright fluorescent lighting that brought out the dazzling shimmer of his greasy hair, holding three sheets of paper, she thought he looked like the beautiful lead singer of a very artistic band. What she didn't know was that the reason she found herself so strongly attracted to Adam Ismailov is that he looked just like her uncle, Jake. Jake, in turn, looked somewhat like her father, Jake as well. It is important to note that the girl in pink hated her father, and her uncle Jake even more.

The teacher, confused by Adam Ismailov's question, but determined not to show it, suggested matter-of-factly, "Well, I think the best place to begin would be the beginning, don't you?" finishing the statement with a stilted little giggle. Adam Ismailov thought this over for a moment and decided that offering an opinion to the contrary would be damaging to his goal of sleeping with his teacher, and so replied, "Yes."

With that, Adam read his essay:

'500 words or so on poetry and transcendence'

Poetry has been written for a very long time. Some people who write poetry are very good at it, some are not so good. The ones who are very good, I hypothesize, were very high when they wrote their poetry. The ones who are not so good, were probably very sober, and are very boring people. Their professions include, but are not limited to: accountant, protestant minister, lawyer, and professional poet.

The reason I am making this claim is, because, I have written a few poems in my life. Some of them I wrote when I was very high, I am not ashamed to admit, and some of them I wrote when I was very sober. The better ones, the ones I wrote when high, are definitely much better.

Here is a selection of verse I wrote high on something:

Look, there, here, wow!
that tables covered in white!
I'm going to run to the supermarket
to buy an energy drink
its the only thing I drink on cocaine.
Cindy is hot,
I think before tonight is over,
I will probably be inside her.
YES!

In my opinion, and the opinions of all my friends who have read it, that poem is very good.

Now, here is an example of my poetry written sober:
I don't know why I am writing this,
Is there a God?
Its probably because I'm so bored.
If I had a mountain of white,
oh powder,
oh white,
how I love you,
I would probably write forever,
and I would not be so bored.
I am going to call hunter
and see if he's stocked,
but if not,
I'll watch pay-per-view,
and probably take a nap.

That is a poem I've never shown to anyone, because it is so terrible. Therefore, In conclusion, perhaps if one wants to write good poetry you should get high- or at least try to think the way you thought when you were high- if you can't get drugs.

Adam Ismailov looked up and smirked. He liked his essay. Looking around the room to see how his essay was received, he noticed a girl in the front row who would not stop staring at him. He made note of it. The rest of his classmates were sleeping, spaced out, or texting about things nobody cares about, except the texter and the textee. Often, however, a bizarre phenomenon occurs in which neither the texter nor the textee care much about the meaning of the text. However, they continue their conversation anyway, concluding that, even if they don't care about it, it is probably much more interesting than listening to an essay by some guy named Adam Ismailov.

The teacher, who he expected at this point to be in thralls of ecstasy over his essay, looked at him coldly, pursed her lips tightly into the 0 shape again, and, somehow, without visibly changing her mouth's position, asked him to have a seat. Adam Ismailov, though confused as to the sudden change in his fortunes, was shielded from disappointment by the fact that he didn't really care anymore. He was now focusing his attention on the girl in the pink top who, though her face was a little swollen, otherwise looked decent enough.

Adam waited patiently, exchanging glances with her for the remaining 15 minutes of class, and, when dismissed, made his move directly towards her. Before he made it, however, he was cornered by his teacher who, with the same pursed lips as before, whispered in his ear, "I know what you thought about my knees up there. You may be a brilliant writer, but I expect you to withdraw from my class immediately... or, you can be sure," pausing to put in effect a sudden and terrifying transformation of the mouth that made it look so astonishingly beak-like that her lips seemed to take on a yellow hue, continued, "I'll make your life so miserable, you'll wish you never even had knees... and you can be sure you'll fail this course."

Though she had intended to whisper all of this, it came out very loudly, and it seemed that her training with the birds had backfired when the girl in pink, who was taking an unreasonably long time packing a pencil and a notebook into a small handbag, heard the teacher's supersonic whispering and was revolted with what she had heard. The girl in pink scowled at the teacher, and walked over to her aggressively, her left fist clenched tightly. The teacher, sensing danger, click clacked swiftly out of the room, leaving her briefcase behind. Even so, she had just barely evaded the girl in pink. "Hello Adam Ismailov, my name is Violet," she kissed him twice on each cheek, and added breathlessly, "your work was simply.... inspiring." She then gave him a small bow, almost identical to the teachers, except it was suggestive of the look a young girl would give to a boy she was about to spend 7 years teasing with the possibility of sleeping with her in her mother's walk-in-closet, but, ultimately, never would. This bow suggested that, instead, she would make him listen to her complaints about other men and how she couldn't understand why they didn't want to cuddle after sex.

Unfortunately for Adam, that is exactly what that bow was to foretell, and even more unfortunately for Adam, he proceeded to invite her to dinner. Adam would never know, until it was too late, that Violet would never, ever, put out. In addition, she would prevent him from using drugs and drinking, and so naturally, his poetry suffered. Adam Ismailov. poor Adam Ismailov, fated otherwise to be the greatest poet of the twenty-first century, instead found himself responding to endless texts from Violet about meaningless mundane shit he didn't care about, and talking to her for at least 15 minutes every night before bed. This went on for seven years, until Violet found love with a successful British stockbroker and moved to London.

Because of Violet, Adam decided not to drop the course in which they met. Violet insisted he shouldn't, because it would make for an unromantic love story if he did. As promised, the teacher failed him, and this led to his expulsion from the university which he could only attend because he was awarded a full scholarship strictly conditional upon Adam's never failing a course. Adam Ismailov is now employed at a video game boutique at the register.

Although it seems rude for the narrator to add a postscript, however brief, to the end of another persons tragic tale; he is going to anyway. The moral of this story, for those not as quick as should be hoped, is the following: Never take off your headphones. No matter how obvious it may appear that you actually can hear someone trying to get your attention, the case can always be argued to the contrary. Although they could be trying to get your attention for something as simple as, say, attendance, and it would make no difference at all; it would be wise to take note of the tragic tale of Adam Ismailov, and err on the side of unresponsiveness.