Excerpt: Tangling in the Atmosphere

It started out as a way to pass our shifts at work: count how many times Professor Green came in for coffee on the average weekday, and see who could discreetly spit into his drink before handing it over to him with a big, genuine CoffeeHut smile.
My record was eight times in a single day. That day was miraculous, I must say. He came in first thing in the morning right after I started my shift at seven. As I turned my back to drizzle some caramel into his drink, I quickly let some saliva drop from my mouth into the brown, hot liquid. It dissolved on contact, and he would never know. But I would know. I would know every time I sat in his class and he handed back a paper that I had spent weeks revising, only to have him give me a B/B+. He didn’t believe in A’s. He thought that giving A’s was saying that a student was perfect, and the only one allowed to be perfect in his classroom was him.
That’s why we spit in his coffee.
He was an asshole, completely self-absorbed and self-important. He doesn’t walk—he saunters. When he comes into the coffee shop, he never removes his sunglasses. Making direct eye contact with a commoner is out of the question for him. He says his order without a please, and takes his drink without a thank-you. And he’s usually back in an hour or two for more coffee.
I had been in Professor Green’s class three times so far in my undergraduate career. It sucked. The first time, he was a jerk, but he was tolerable at least. I was a freshman and I just assumed that all professors were tough. He’d often yell at the class for things that he had failed to really explain to us—like not properly grasping the concept of Marxist theory… none of us had any idea what the hell Marxist theory was or why it was important to the books we were reading in class. Once that semester ended, I thought I was free from him. Then a year later, as a sophomore, I had him again because he was the only one teaching a certain class that I absolutely needed to take that year.
That class was even worse than the first. He assigned eight hours of reading a week, and at least one response paper per week. I barely made it out of that semester alive.
And now, as a senior, on the brink of stepping into the world a fully intelligent, well-rounded adult, I’m stuck back in class with the most sour, unpleasant man I’ve ever encountered. And he’s making this semester worse than ever before.
The first day of class should have been an indication of what I was in for. There were only ten of us in the classroom, and when Green walked in, he brought a gust of cold air and let the door slam brutally behind him. It was obnoxious, to be honest. I knew what he was doing—he was intimidating us from the get-go. I was used to his games, though. Plus, I had also spit twice in his latte that morning, so I was already a few steps ahead of him.
He sipped his drink and eyed the class like a lion assessing a valley full of idle, ignorant gazelles. His gaze stopped in me for a moment, recognition flashing over his face. He knew me, and I was sure he was cataloging me in his brain—Adrienne D’Angelo, senior, B/B+ student, makes coffee for a living, subpar intelligence, no threat to my intellectual superiority.
Oh, but Professor… if only you knew. I seek revenge in my own disgusting, unsanitary ways. The things the Health Department would say if they knew that all the baristas at CoffeeHut were all drooling into the coffee.
I held his gaze and thought to myself, I accept your B/B+ and raise you this: my most aggressive, unrelenting cold. Enjoy.
“Well. Good morning,” he said, putting his drink down and shrugging out of his black wool overcoat. He draped it over the back of his chair and grabbed a stack of papers.
“This is your syllabus. Look it over. It’s very clear and self-explanatory, but if for some reason you don’t understand something—which is unlikely—just ask.”
He passed the papers out, and sat down at his desk, looking over the syllabus himself. He was satisfied with his work, as usual. I imagined he was the type of man who could do no wrong in his own eyes. I couldn’t imagine him apologizing for anything, even something blatantly his fault.
“I have a question,” someone next to me said. I glanced over. It was Roger, this kid I had had class with a few times before. He was nice enough, but stupid to be challenging Green like this.
“Oh?” Green said, looking doubtful. “What is it?”
“Well, it says that our first paper is due in two weeks. Isn’t that a little soon?”
Green’s mouth curved upwards—I wouldn’t call it a smile, especially with his lack of lips—but his mouth itself seemed to move up on his face slightly. It was more sneer than smile. “No. In fact, let’s move it up to next week.”
The class groaned. “You’re seniors. You need to be able to handle this type of work load. I had no problem doing this type of work as a student.”
“Too bad we can’t all be superhuman like you,” the girl behind me said under her breath. I caught the laugh in my throat before it came out of my mouth. Green’s eyes darted over to us, then settled back on Roger.
“Any other questions?”
Roger shook his head, and for the next hour, we listened as Green recounted his academic history, his recent achievements in the field of English literature, and the number of conferences that were practically begging him to come be the keynote speaker. I made a mental note to spit in his coffee three times the next morning.