May 27, St. Augustine, First Archbishop of Canterbury.
They would never become true philosophers,these lazy, lost children slouching in their baggy dungarees, boxer shorts pulled up high, waist bands visible to anyone wanting to look, paying a premium to wear someone else’s name on their underwear. Professor Bradley Lapont set his notes on the podium and walked up one aisle of the lecture hall, then down the next and back to the podium. “I smell cow shit. Someone in here just finish up in the barn?” He smiled and wrinkled his nose.
Sun bathed the floor and students closest to the windows, three of them asleep in the late spring warmth. He didn’t know their names even now on the last day of the quarter or he would have graded them down. Aaron would know who they were and reduce their grades by ten percent.
He looked out at the students, some actually pens at the ready, fresh sheets of paper in front of them. Their mid term grades taught them well to take notes of every word in the lecture. The questions may or may not have anything to do with the required reading, but they would most surely arise from his lectures.
“Some final thoughts on Wittgenstein today.” He turned to write on the white board. The dry erase pen was weak and the words were barely visible even from a few feet away. “Damn it, Aaron, get me some pens that write, that I can see.” The teaching assistant ran out of the room and returned, Professor LaPont silent until he was holding a fresh pen.
“By now you know of Wittgenstein? Yes?” He pointed at a blonde haired young man in shorts and sandals, his shirt unbuttoned. “Tell me about Mr. Wittgenstein and what perhaps in his life could have driven him to refute thousands of years of the internal process inherent, say, in Aquinas’ three levels of metaphysics.”
“His love of mathematics, not of applied mathematics, but of pure mathematics. As an engineering student, his devotion to precise, physical measurements maybe drove, perhaps inspired him to see only the empirical and to discount the metaphysical process which he saw as mindless speculation.” The boy smiled. Professor LaPont shook his head.
“At least you read my book.” He turned to the rest of the class. “Regurgitating my own words back to me is plagiarism. Take ten percent of his grade off.” He snapped his fingers at the assistant. “Shame.” He walked across the front of the room eyeing the boy. “Take up truck driving or something. Maybe surfing, That’s it. Bright faced boy like you. Move to LaLa land and take up surfing and drugs.” The boy looked away, anger flushing his face. “Oh, dear, I have upset you so. Okay, I know why you’re so good at plagiarizing; you’re into that computer programming and all you need to do now is just copy what everyone else has done already. Isn’t that the truth; there’s nothing original left to accomplish in programming?” He walked over to a sleeping student, gestured, then turned away shaking his head. “His answer might be about the next party or something, but at least it would be original.” He stood next to a young woman. “Surely you have something original to say.”
“My name is not Shirley.”
Professor LaPont stared at her momentarily. She had such pretty eyes. “Excuse me?”
“You said ‘surely you have something original to say’, and I told you my name is not Shirley.” Several students laughed lightly. Professor LaPont looked around, his right index finger on his upper lip.
“I see. Yes. Well. I’ve been had here. Jokes on me, that sort of thing.” He walked back to the podium. “I see I have wasted my time once again. You see, I agreed to teach again after my many years at Harvard, your Dean so desperate for someone who could teach you Philosophy, I agreed. I could be sitting now at my desk at the ranch, writing my next book. All I wanted to do this quarter was to develop in you an appreciation of the moderns and the fantastic mess Bertrand Russell started. The empty churches throughout Europe are a testament to his effectiveness. Yes, God is dead. Dead to all of us, and especially dead to those pedophile priests. Where is their God? Surfing the net?” He walked to the board and wrote ‘word games’. “This is the essence of Wittgenstein. Words games. You can expect a question on your final exam about this. I covered it thoroughly weeks nine, ten and eleven. If there are any questions on this, then hold forth and ask.” LaPont carefully placed his notes into the black leather folder with ‘Harvard’ embossed in gold on the front. “Questions?”
The Blonde boy raised his hand. LaPont nodded. “How do you explain the fact the church I attend has doubled in size over the past five years. We are building a new church, the facility just off I-90, you must drive by it every day. If God is dead, then where does this faith come from?”
“I see what you are. A faith based plagiarist. May I answer your question?” The boy spread his arms, welcoming the forthcoming words. “We have effectively, in the latter part of the twentieth century, deconstructed the notion of the internal process so important to the belief in metaphysics. It is the thing, it is the word attached to the thing. What is this three levels of cognition Aquinas shoved down our throats? Pap. Once you can experience something that doesn’t exist…” He snapped his fingers. “You can then tell all those mindless practitioners plopping ten percent of their farm wages into the collection basket that God exists and we can prove it because metaphysics allows us to experience something without substance, God, through that all important third level of pure metaphysics where faith resides. I can’t help but feel sorry for those poor families with too many children putting food and gas money into the pockets of the men who will turn around and tomorrow molest their children.” He smiled at the students.
The blonde boy raised his hand again. LaPont nodded. “How do you explain the process of writing a novel, or how do you explain Abstract Art. Not the experience of reading the novel, but perhaps we can deal with that later, but the process of creating a fictional character in the mind, a fictional character albeit created perhaps in part from ideosynchrosies appearing in real people, but definitely created at an abstract level. And Picasso. How do you explain what processes, internal process, he experienced as this art rises up from within and is expressed on the canvas. Jackson Pollock, when he stood on those huge canvasses, seeing something in all that smeared paint I cannot see. What is that?”
LaPont stared at him. “What is your name?”
“Stig. Stig Hammerly.”
“Stig Hammerly. I will remember your name precisely because you hold to something as ancient as dribble speculation. Let’s do this. On your final exam you write a page or two speculating on how I would answer your question and if I like what I read, I’ll give you back that ten percent I took from you. Okay.” LaPont slid the folder under his arm. “Well, I am finished here. I am off for the summer to rent a house in Provence. It’s one of the most sought after houses there; nice views of the sea, the quaint little town. I’ll be tracking the Tour de France this year. As most of you know, there is this cyclist with the same last name, Phillip LaPont. My son. Smart money is on him to be on the top step of the podium in Paris. Take my advice and bet on him. Good bye until the Fall.” He walked toward the door. “I say that to those of you who have failed.” He winked. “My assistant will read my thoughts to you now. He will also proctor the exam in my absence. Expect questions on the exam from the recital so take a few notes.” He slammed the door.
Travel was endured, as long as the going and returning were sufficiently far apart to accommodate rest and assimilation into the local culture. Marilyn always packed for him, everything but the books. He selected these carefully; there were just some things he could read as he moved among the masses, heaving and shoving their way through the airport, hauling those bulbous bags too heavy to lift into the overhead. Marilyn was that wonderful special woman he had hoped would be there for him during his career, handling the little things.
Maybe he would return in the Fall. He looked out at the horse barn across the lush green pasture. It was perhaps time for him to write the interpretation of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus, something so few had done well. What agitated him so much was the inadequate preparation these west coast kids had for college. It was so much better in Massachusetts where students could be expected to enroll in Harvard with the ability to think originally, write clearly and find a book in the library. What they were really good at here was drinking beer and having sex. Breeding, back water hicks.
He logged into the college grading system to see if Aaron had taken care of the grades and he had. If he did teach again he would demand Aaron again, and get him. Twenty two students, six failures, five D’s, ten C’s and one B. No A’s. As usual. He didn’t think any student at Central Washington University was capable of earning an A. Maybe in computer programming or something.
Marylin would handle the bills at the bank, set up an occasional visitor to check on things, make the necessary arrangements for feeding and caring for the horses. The hay would get cut and stored, the first two cuttings for himself and the third for John Anderson, the sure footed fellow who hauled his dirty children around cutting hay for the third cutting to feed his lifestock for free. They wanted to use the bathroom once and he refused and told them not to pee in the woods.
He prepare for the trip. He would write some, inspired by a truly cultured civilization. He would visit the Wittgenstein homes in Vienna again, make notes of how civilized these pre-war Jews were. It would all come rushing back over him. And he would not have to endure the internet for the summer. What a great blessing. Email was such a nuisance. He would buy most of his books when they arrived in Milan rather than carry pounds of them on to the plane. He sat back in his chair and looked out at the horses, grazing quietly, tails swishing away the flies.
He looked at the picture taken of Phillip; fourteen changing at the pool, his white butt prominent against his tan legs, looking back at his buddy Luke who took the picture, laughing. Phillip later regretted letting Luke take the picture, especially when it ended up in a wooden frame and on the professor’s desk. Brad put it face down in the top drawer and locked the desk for the summer.
The drive over the mountains was cheaper than a local flight, especially since the Merrimans offered to drive them for free. Brad didn’t care what route they took, he wasn’t driving and he successfully ignored all but the most pressing questions, especially the ones about Phillip and his chances of winning Le Tour. Dan Merrimans said it with a bad high school French accent. Marylin took care of the answers for him.
He was relieved security would not allow the Merrimans to wait at the gate with them. They waved their goodbyes at security and Brad smiled without waving. Finished with them, and every one of these dirt clod farmers for the next three months. The bar looked appealing. He ordered a beer, upgrading the size. Marilyn ordered a soda. He looked up at the television at a baseball game. Brad asked the waitress to change the channel, find a bicycle race or a European soccer game. She left the baseball game on and he stared at her. When they left he didn’t leave a tip.
The original publisher for this novel is no longer involved in the publication and Cast the First Stone will be released in the Spring of 2010 under a different imprint.