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Anthropology 201

Written by Kitty Sarkozy

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College is a crucible. You go in a dumb kid, and with luck, you leave a less dumb adult, ready to take your place in the world. It took me a little longer than the standard four years. I had a job throughout, slowing down the matriculation process. It’s not all books, lectures, and labs – there are life lessons too. In college, you learn, grow, get exposed to new ideas, new cultures, and new people.

Do you remember that story I told you a while back, about that cow, the black Angus that showed up in the barn? How I said it came from somewhere else, kinda crawfishing into our reality. You know all about that. Wait . . . have I told you about that waterfall, up near Forsyth? No? Well remind me sometime. Don’t let me get off-topic. I’m telling you about college and learning to see what’s there, not what you think ought to be. Part of growing up is understanding that you can’t always trust that you know the truth, even when you see it with your own eyes.

Let’s see . . . that semester I think I was taking Anthropology 101, with the most delightful professor – Dr. Tragos. He was short, round, bald, and full of energy. Tragos had a dramatic voice, an energetic way of moving around the room, and a bookshelf full of antiques and specimens he used as props. He told the most exciting stories, making his class feel more like a play than a lecture.

However, you had to pay attention in his class; if not, you could get hit in the face with a human skull.

Alright, that only happened once and he said the skull was actually a plastic reconstruction of Homo erectus, meaning not even a fake human skull, but something older, like the human race’s pawpaw. Most days you only needed to avoid the trajectory of dry-erase markers. Dr. Tragos had no thumbs. Both of them were gone, cut off in a woodshop accident when he was young, he said, although try as I might, I couldn’t picture a situation where you could cut off both your thumbs at once. Dr. Tragos would go to pick up something, and without the backstop of a thumb, the object would go flying across the room. I couldn’t understand why his brain and body hadn’t come to some sort of accord about the reality of the situation, compensating like how I do with my darkside eye, and using it how it is, not how it was before it got blinded. But he hadn’t, and we all just accepted that and ducked as necessary.

Hold on . . . now that I’m telling it, this was the second time I had taken a class taught by him. It had to have been the second time, Anthropology 201.

Anyway, Dr. Tragos was charismatic. He wasn’t attractive, but damn was he charming. The type of person you feel like you can trust right away. Everyone I knew who had taken one of his classes raved about him. You would be willing to pay admission for this guy. Well, I guess I did, or the State of Georgia did at any rate, me being a HOPE scholar and all. My quiz bowl coach, who was also my advisor, told me to take his class, saying I’d love Dr. Tragos, and I did. Anthropology was a high point of Tuesdays and Thursdays.

However, in that second class, the love for him didn’t seem totally universal. Two people didn’t seem to like Dr. Tragos at all. This one guy, Ted, liked to argue. I’d had other classes with him before – he was rude, entitled, and attractive, with a strong jaw and a broad forehead. Still a bit of a punch-face, and when he’d, “well, actually…” someone, the sides of his mouth turned up in a sneer of superiority and triumph. Ted was the kind of guy who thought he was smarter than everyone, including our professors, probably because his mommy had told him he was the most special boy. He wasn’t dumb, but he wasn’t particularly bright either. He was just a sour unhappy person – you know the type. They have everything handed to them, only to slap it all away demanding something better. Some people were in the Ted fan club because edgelord is still a popular social trait at twenty, and having cash to throw around doesn’t hurt either.

The other student who wasn’t on team Trago was Jasmine, who was just about as different from Ted as one could be. She was pretty, stunning in fact, with dark hair and big expressive eyes, politely southern and smart – but not smarter than me, which I appreciate. She dressed fashionably but modestly, expensive but not flashy. She had a nice car, new books, soft, delicate hands, and tasteful makeup. She also had a big, sparkly, vintage diamond ring, that I couldn’t help but stare at. The stone sparkled throwing off red, orange and gold embers, as if a tiny fire burned inside. I figured it was worth a fortune because she wasn’t the type to wear a flashy costume piece.

Yes. I know you know! Damn, girl, I’m wearing it right now! I’m telling you how I got it, why it’s valuable and how to use it, and if you don’t stop interrupting me, when I die I’m taking it with me.

Jasmine sat in the front row of all the other classes we had together, but in Anthropology she was in the very back, closest to the door. When class ended she was the first out of the room. I noticed. Noticing is what I do, you know? I figured she had another class right after on the other side of campus, and didn’t think of it again. If I had paid more attention I might have realized how uncomfortable she always looked in that class. How that radiant smile was absent in Anthropology.

Anyway, I was going to college, holding down a coffee shop job, and fighting our hereditary case of chronic poverty. I was broke, with student loans piling up. I was exhausted and stressed, keeping it together on the pure determination that I was going to live in the big city and be a successful lawyer. I was pushing myself hard to be classy someday.

I know, it’s funny how unimportant that seems now.

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The university was just as obsessed with being bougie as I was. They were feeling pretty precious about the brand new marble-floored, Corinthian columned, chandelier bedazzled Student Center, fronted by a well-manicured activity green and amphitheater. They had something going on there every day, which often meant free stuff. There was swag like keychains, pens, t-shirts, foam can koozies, sunscreen, hygiene supplies, and post-it notes. But most of the time it was food.

Sometimes the school itself would hold events and give out food; once there was an ice cream social and on the last day before a big holiday or the end of the semester there was often a cook-out. A few times the school hired a food truck. Mostly the caloric philanthropy came from local businesses, charity groups, and social organizations hoping to earn some goodwill with the leaders of tomorrow. They would bring out a few pizzas, sandwiches, chicken biscuits or glazed donuts. Food was frequent, but it wasn’t always consistent or predictable.

College students are like cicadas in their swarming behavior and ravenous hunger. Often I’d hear about the altruistic bounty and hurry off, only to find the prey picked clean, napkins and plastic forks scattered, and forlorn paper pepper packets bereft of their salty counterpart as the only evidence of a feeding frenzy.

We had a cafeteria, sure, and the cook took pity on those who treated him like a person, so I got extra fries or a free brownie now and then. But you know you can’t depend on that to happen, so I only went to the cafeteria line if I had money to pay for food. Which at that point wasn’t often. I was hungry. Learning I had missed charity chicken sandwiches could just about break my heart.

Dr. Tragos had some sort of sixth sense when it came to food. A few weeks into my first class with him, about five minutes shy of the end of class, he put down his markers, looked at us and with great exuberance and cried, “free food!” before walking out of the room. We could hear his voice fading down the hall, sing-songing, “free food, free food!” I was too confused to follow, but a few other students jumped up, grabbed their bags, and chased after him. When I caught up I found pizza in the Student Center. I was able to grab two slices of plain cheese before it was gone.

From then on any time I saw Dr. Tragos hurrying purposely down a hallway, I followed. It paid off. I got rice crispy treats, donuts and coffee, energy drinks, mini-boxes of cereal, single serving bags of chips, apples, sweet tea, and once some damn good falafels – the Israeli type, with a dill pickle in there. I would follow him if I’d just eaten. A few times I even followed him when I knew it would make me late for my next class. I couldn’t help it! Hearing, “free food, free food!” put a smile on my face and tensed my muscles to run with excitement.

Not everyone seemed affected by his siren’s call to mumping, but a lot did. He never looked back. In fact, it always seemed to me he didn’t even notice us trailing behind, Pied Piper-style. He was just as excited about the food as we were, and just as single-minded about acquiring it.

Near the end of the Fall semester, late November maybe? – Could have been the first week of December – I’d had a 6 p.m. history class, and then practice with Dr. Stephens and the Quiz Bowl guys in the Student Center, where we had our own dedicated team room, a perk of being the only competitive “sport” at the college. It was about 8 p.m, maybe 8:30, when we ended practice for the night and everyone went home. I went pee, as it’s good sense to go pee before driving forty-five minutes to Monticello, and was just about to walk out of the restroom when I heard Dr. Tragos in the distance. “Free food, free food!” My muscles tensed, but not with that excited, hunting dog feeling – this time it startled me. It was more like a fire alarm or tornado warning. It was nighttime, I was alone, and the call was oddly echoing in the deserted building. The white-tiled walls of the bathroom made his voice sound strange, hollow. Like those old radio podcasts I listen to.

The last classes ended at 8 p.m. The administrative offices closed at 4 p.m. for maximum inefficiency at a school with a lot of non-traditional students. The cafeteria closed at 7. I saw my team leave out the side door, which auto-locked behind them. Aside from the security guy and maybe some custodial staff, I’d have expected myself to be the lone occupant of the building. What I’m saying is, no one shoulda been there, so why the hell would anyone be handing out food?

It occurred to me that maybe he was having some sort of episode, like Meemaw Marie before she died. She would get stuck in these patterns, trying to do things that had already been done, or hadn’t needed to be done in forty years. I had to chase her down Highway 41 towards Fort Valley a few days before she died.

Dr. Tragos wasn’t old, but he wasn’t young either. I had assumed around fifty-five, but maybe he was older. He was certainly odd. Did he have schizophrenia? Or some sort of dementia? I figured I best go find him and make sure he was safe. But the moment I opened the bathroom door to walk out into the atrium I felt this wave of something wrong. I felt confused and scared, and I wanted to go back into that bathroom and curl up in the final stall, or run out the side door and just keep on running, maybe forever.

It occurred to me that maybe the person having the episode wasn’t Dr. Tragos but me. I was twenty-four or five at the time. I hadn’t yet gotten that thirty-fifth birthday high-five from my shrink to celebrate avoiding schizophrenia. Maybe I was imagining the song of the wandering professor.

I shook my head and was about to leave when I heard it again: “Free food, free food!” loud, way too loud in the marble stillness, coming from the direction of the cafeteria. I was shook. My skin shivered with cold sweat and blood whooshed in my ears loud as a carwash. My lungs felt tight, like an asthma attack coming on. I pulled out my inhaler, taking a few deep sharp breaths of Albuterol. But it didn’t relieve the pressure.

I wanted to pretend I hadn’t heard him. I wanted to walk away, but I couldn’t. I liked Dr. Tragos. I had to check on him.

I took a step towards the cafeteria, then another.

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BING!

I jumped, my heart lurching as I turned towards the sound, and I saw the elevator lights behind me light up.

The door opened.

Out walked Ted.

Now, let me tell you, he was what rightly reminded me of Meemaw. His eyes were open, his mouth was slack. He looked dazed, like he was drunk, or just hit his head.

“Ted, are you ok?” I asked, but he didn’t even shift his eyes toward me. He walked out of the elevator, past me, taking slow Romero zombie steps towards the cafeteria.

“Ted, stop,” I commanded, reaching out to grab him. But I’m little, was even littler then, and he was a big dude. He kept right on going.

“Free food, free food!”

That song had gone from something of joy to one of the worst things I had ever heard. It was wrong, real wrong. The same voice, the same words, but all the kindness, joy, generosity, and silliness of that endearingly hungry little man was gone. Each word buzzed my brain like the waves of a bad fever.

It was as wrong as hearing Santa saying, “hohoho” while beating someone to death, or if Dolly Parton was caught Elizabeth Báthory style, with a bunch of dead Nashville party girls strung up in her basement supplying ichor to a rejuvenating blood spa. No, that isn’t how she stays young! I got theories, don’t interrupt me with nonsense!

At the sound of Trago’s chant Ted sped up. His face was red, like he was holding his breath, and I saw some sweat beading his relaxed, placid face. Nothing was right, every damn bit of it just wrong.

I ran a few steps, grabbed Ted with both hands, dug in, sitting all my weight into the heels of my Doc Martens, and started to pull as hard as I could. Somehow, I knew I couldn’t let him go into the cafeteria. He didn’t try to push me off, he didn’t fight. If he had, there would have been nothing I coulda done, but he didn’t even seem to realize I was there, paying me absolutely no nevermind. Giving it my all I slowed him down, we were treading water at least, but I didn’t think I could hold it. I was afraid to make any noise, I knew in my bones that I didn’t want Dr. Tragos turning his attention on me, but I needed help.

That was when the loud, cracking sound of heeled shoes on marble rang out behind me like gunshots, coming from the hallway.

There was Jasmine, who must have just come from the state-of-the-art Science complex next door, because she was wearing safety glasses, a goofy lab coat, and her chestnut hair was up in a high bun. I flinched at each strike of her heels as she walked towards us.

She didn’t look dazed. But she didn’t look normal either. Her face was wet with tears, running down under the plastic goggles. Her lower lip was swollen and bloody, teeth marks visible. Like I said, she was a nice, polite southern girl, but her face didn’t have that normal, genteel look I expected of her. It was distant and cold, with a touch of pity for those around her. She looked sad, but more than that she looked scared. Terrified.

“Jasmine, help me, something’s wrong with Ted! He’s sleepwalking I think. Help me get him out of here,” I whispered

She shook her head.

“Seriously,” I hissed. “Something real weird is going on. We’ve got to get out of here right now! Please, help me!”

She got to me, putting her hand over one of mine. Her skin was soft and warm against mine. This close I could smell her perfume, floral and woody with a touch of petrichor. It reminded me a little of the time I visited Muir Woods to see the redwoods. My lungs released enough for me to get one good, deep breath.

“Yes,” Jasmine said. “You need to get out of here, right now. Let go of him and go home.” Her voice was so calm and rational that I did just that. Loosing my grip on Ted immediately, and the laws of physics knocked me to my ass on the cold marble.

While I scrambled back up, she followed behind Ted.

I ran after her. She stopped, turning and looking me full in the face.

“You don’t want to go in there,” she said, and I couldn’t argue with that, as I sure as hell did not want to go in there. I didn’t want to be there at all. Like, maybe even in a cosmic sense, that I didn’t even want to exist in a reality where that particular place was a there to go into. I wanted to pinch myself awake from whatever the fuck this was.

I stood still for a few heartbeats, watching as, behind Jasmine, Ted reached out, pulled open the smoked glass door and shuffled into the cafeteria. I knew with certainty that whatever was happening was happening, and there was no going back now. There was nothing I could do, and no one else to call for help.

“It was very nice having been in classes with you. Thank you for tutoring me in finance,” Jasmine said, as casual and polite as if this was a normal day, in a normal class, as if her chin and Lilly Pulitzer shirt weren’t covered in blood.

I walked toward her and she met me halfway. The tears were running hard as she looked around the ostentatious waste of money that was the Student Center and administrative building.

“I’m going to miss this place. But I have to go now, I don’t belong here.”

I wanted to say something. To grab ahold of her and tell her to stop. To tell her I’d had a little crush on her for over a year. To pull her away. I could have, because unlike Ted she was a little whip of a thing, at least thirty pounds lighter than me. But I didn’t. I stood there, and my mouth was just plain useless.

She gave me a kind, sad smile, reaching her hands out and taking hold of mine, much more familiar than I would have expected. I felt regret for something that could’ve been, but never would be. She closed my fingers around a small, hot object, before letting go and quickly walking away, into the dark cafeteria.

That was when the screaming started. As far as I could tell it was just one voice – Ted. He screamed like nothing you ever heard before, and I hope never will. It was loud, and the pitch started high and got higher and higher. Impossibly high. Like when you wring a rabbit, mixed with a kid getting whooped, and a bit of train whistle. It went on and on, seemed like forever.

I reached up to cover my ears and realized two things. One, I was screaming too, maybe out of terror, maybe to cover the sound of Ted, and that the palm of my left hand was getting cold. Icy cold.

The screaming stopped.

Shut off like a TV. The only sound was my screaming, which turned to sobbing.

I ran.

I got in the car and drove one-handed all the way up to the La Vista exit before I stopped crying. I pulled into the movie theater parking lot where my friend Jen worked. I was soaked with sweat, to be honest, I might have even pissed myself. I can’t say for sure.

I forced open the frozen fingers of my left hand and found Jasmine’s antique ring there – the diamond foggy, with minimal sparkles of blue and green in the parking lot lights, instead of the fiery soul it had always had before.

I put it on. It fit like it was made for me.

I didn’t go back to school for a few days, must have been winter break. I kept expecting to see something on the news, or to have the cops show up at my door. That didn’t happen. I didn’t tell anyone what I saw.

I was afraid of what I’d seen, afraid I was losing my mind to schizophrenia like your mama or my Aunt Glenda.

When I did go back to school, I sure as hell didn’t want to go back to Anthropology class. But I was afraid not to. If it wasn’t real I was giving into the delusions and would fail a class for no reason. If it was real, I didn’t want Dr. Tragos to wonder why I wasn’t in there.

Tuesday came around and I went to class.

First thing I saw, on the shelf with the arrowheads, the stone-tipped ax, broken pottery, and various hominid bones, was a new skull. It had a broad forehead and a strong jaw, and gleamed like polished ivory.

When Dr. Tragos came into class. I saw him, really saw him for the first time, and I froze. I wanted to run so bad, but I just sat there, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. I could feel hot tears running down my cheeks, my muscles coiled tight to jump and run. I sat there and didn’t say a word.

He went about teaching Anthropology. I don’t recall what he talked about. He showed some images on the whiteboard, he asked the class questions. It was all so normal.

Except that I was watching a mythological monster walking around pretending to be a community college professor.

At the end of class, I got up, and was trying to leave the room when he called me back. I stopped and stood there, unable to do anything, even breathe.

He walked towards me, his slit-pupilled eyes looking into mine.

“Don’t concern yourself about Jasmine,” he said. “She just needed to go home. And Ted, well, that was nothing to worry about, either. I recommend you not concern yourself or anyone else with this.” He tried to smile around his razor-sharp, cracked yellow teeth and protruding lower tusks and placed his three-toed hoof on my shoulder, like a human trying to bring comfort.

Then, turning away, he walked out of the class, humming a little tune.

After that, when I went to class I sat where Jasmine used to sit, as close to the door as possible, and anytime I heard, “free food!” echoing down the halls I got dizzy and nauseous. I lost fifteen pounds before spring break when I went to Orlando to get your Mama out of some trouble. I’ve told you about that right?

Anyway, here’s that ring.

Yeah, right now, sitting here with you, on a pretty day, when there’s nothing I need to be looking at too hard, it’s warm against my skin. Look, it’s like a tiny sun done got trapped in there.

I’ve got to say it’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever been given, coming in handy more than a few times. I wish I knew for sure that Jasmine got home, wherever that was. I wish I could thank her for what she did that night.

Anyway, what got me talking about this? Oh! You asked why it’s so cold in the back of the barn. Well, if you’re feeling brave you can wear the ring for a few minutes and go see for yourself.

I’d best come with you.

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Host Commentary

I was a teacher for a long time. One thing any teacher will tell you is that nightmares – all right, let’s go with anxiety dreams – about being in the classroom are part of that deal. I haven’t taught for six years now, but I still get them. I suspect it’s scored into my subconscious. Anyway, I love a teaching horror story. We don’t see them as often as you might expect, but Kitty has done a fabulous job, here.

As students – I’ve been that too, of course – we tend to forget that teachers are human beings, but actually, that’s part of the routine. All teachers put on a mask, because, particularly when you have to teach several groups in a row, there’s no other way. You can’t be your normal self. You have to be teacher you. Teacher you knows their subject, knows how to answer questions, knows how to explain concepts in at least three different ways, knows exactly how long is too long, knows when to stop talking, knows when Kieran in the back row is messing about even when he’s out of your eye-line (this one’s easy, Kieran in the back row is always messing about), and knows when it’s best to strategically not notice.

Teacher you doesn’t go to the toilet or go home or get sick or eat. Teachers aren’t human, remember. They live in the stationery cupboard.

Or possibly, in the case of Dr. Tragos, in a labyrinth somewhere…

He doesn’t seem too bad, does he, Dr. Tragos? His lessons sound kind of fun. Bouncing around the room, using props. Hey, even the skull – so long as it hits someone else, so you’ve got a story to relay at break time and no a bruise to explain.

And Ted seems like a bit of an arse. We’ve all met that guy.

All so normal. Nothing out of the ordinary, here.

But, no one can keep the mask up forever. No one. Dr. Tragos needs to eat. He can’t help it. He stayed as a good teacher for as long as he possibly could, but eventually, well. And, hey, if you’re gonna snap, might as well be in the direction of the guy who’s the biggest pain in the ass, right? It’s not good but it’s less bad.

Understanding that the adults around us aren’t superhumans but are just as flawed as everyone else is part of growing up. It takes a long time, sometimes. But it’s an important step. Jasmine understood it, and she passed that awareness onto our narrator, who, by the end of the tale, now sees Dr. Tragos for what he is. He’s still teaching. Still doing a good job of it, but she knows. And that’s… hard.

And now she recognises other monsters, too. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that. The ring is a valuable gift, albeit one that comes with a price.

“If you’re feeling brave you can wear the ring for a few minutes,” she says.

Would you? Could you?

It’s seductive to believe that people with power over you simply deserve to have it. That they’re intelligent, strategic, know what they’re doing. That they’re fundamentally good and want to do the best by everyone.

Hell, sometimes that’s even true.

But sometimes it isn’t. And the longer you stay blind, the worse it’s going to be. If horror teaches us anything it’s that the monster has a lot less power over you once you’ve seen it for what it is.

So it’s probably best you steel yourself and give the ring a try.

Lovely work from Kitty Sarkozy.