I WILL DARE
I never knew I was turned on by tattoos until he rolled up the sleeves to his white-buttoned beige linen shirt. A course on the American novel since 1955. Professor Harrington leaning back on the front edge of his desk, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle. An early April day in New Haven hitting the high 80s. The AC not switching on like it was supposed. Professor Harrington assuring us Yale facilities had been called. But that assurance came with a roll of his eyes, and a groan from every student in the room. By year three we knew what that meant.
His was a vintage thrift shop of ink, an old typewriter, a portrait, it had to be Kurt Vonnegut, a guitar, a camera, an infinity symbol, a spider 45 insert in bright yellow, some text I couldn’t read, but so wanted to. A few in black and white. A few in vivid colors. A few with highlights like afterthoughts.