The adjunct gets out of his car into the light drizzle, reaches into the car for bag, grab coffee, up stairs. To shared office. Now what. Prep. But he’s too tired. He just wants to sip his coffee and read, or write, or just listen to something, Sonny Rollins or Miles. It’s early, too early, but this is his time, the time before the class he selected– or the only one that was left for him. No sight of full-timers. No shock. They wouldn’t do this to themselves but they would do it to adjuncts.. give them the shit, right?
Adjunct looks at the time, 6:22, he still has time, time he can make his but do what with it, so early. “Get ready for class, come on, do it!” he fires at himself but no action, just sipping coffee. And next semester, another class at this hour. No shock. That’s what was left. He’s that buzzard that gets to the meal after lions and hyenas and wild dogs, leopards and what else have had their ravening with what be. And what was he, the adjunct, and adjunct, part the 75% that were played with, shifted, looked at with certain lowered eyes.. noticed it every time he’d walk through the hallway or into the mail room where they were having a cute little gossip chats about someone or about some students or class– that’s what he never got, did they think themselves so aloft in stomps that they could talk about them, the students, like that? Making fun of their writing, their troubles, something holding them back?
The adjunct packs, readies, sips the last. Sore from yesterday’s gym visit, where he tried to expel angst, but now it’s all over him with the pain from weights, the running.