Monkey Business

layla makes a good impression

Tuesday, September 9, 10:40 a.m.

I love B-school.

And I would love it exponentially more if Professor Martin stopped spitting on me. But he appears to love what he teaches, Strategy, and that’s what’s important.

He’s wearing an army hat. This is because he is trying to make the point that business is war, which is written in block letters on the blackboard and on the class agenda, lest we forget.

As usual, I’m sitting in the front row. This time, I’m regretting the seat choice due to Professor Martin’s tendency to spit every time he uses the letter P.

Kimmy seems to be enjoying the class even less than I am. She looks horribly uncomfortable in the front row, and keeps reclining her neck as though attempting to get away. She’s wearing a look of distaste, as if the maid forgot to empty the kitty litter. And she’s not even taking notes. I suppose she’s planning on borrowing them later from the library, where the professors keep them on file.

All the men around me are eagerly leaning forward in their seats, enjoying the war metaphor. I’m finding the environment mildly testosterone heavy.

“Do you people understand?” Professor Martin spits, waving his hands. “Your competitor is the enemy. You must be prepared to fight for every consumer dollar and every point of market share or you will not prevail in business.”

Too bad I’m a pacifist. Why do men think everything is about war?

Yes! The bell rings, and I head to the computer terminals to check my e-mail. The application committee was supposed to get back to me early this week. It’s Tuesday. Today is the last possible day for it to still be considered early in the week. Tomorrow is the middle of the week. I type in my e-mail address and password. My password is always the same. It’s the license plate I memorized off a cab when I was five, thinking that the driver was the gray-haired man who had killed his wife in that week’s episode of Unsolved Mysteries. I wanted to call the show, but my then nanny wouldn’t let me.

In my inbox: five e-mails from my best girlfriends back home in the city, a bunch of e-mails from the LWBS administration regarding class add/drop dates, a reminder about my ten-year high-school reunion this summer (for which I’m on a committee), an article featuring my mother in Woman Entrepreneurs, forwarded by her secretary.

Not in my inbox: a message from the applications committee.

Bummer. I IM with the girls for twenty minutes, wash my hands in the bathroom to cleanse myself of computer germs, and use a paper towel to open the door. I need to buy more of those antibacterial wipes. I’m already out. In the caf, I buy a burger and a Sprite, then search for a familiar face. I look for people in my work group, but can’t find anyone. They’re extremely competent, but they don’t like to socialize. Two of them are married and live in off-campus housing. The third is the orange-haired Japanese student, who mostly hangs out with the Asian student association.

I spot Kevin, the last member of my group, sitting by himself in the corner, rubbing his eyes. He’s always rubbing his eyes. And I’ve seen him do it right after he opens the germ-infested classroom door. In Japan, they hand out warm towels to wipe your hands on before you eat. Kevin could use one.

“Mind if join you for lunch?” I ask. He wouldn’t be my first choice for a meal partner, but I’ll give him a chance. “Ghjkhjh,” he says, mumbling something. He pushes his tray to the side to accommodate me, so I assume that’s a yes. Obviously I didn’t ask him to be part of my group because of his conversation skills. A former accountant for Ernst & Young, he’s a whiz with numbers.

“Are your eyes okay?” I ask, biting into my hamburger.

“They’re itchy.” Small bits of pus line the rims. He continues rubbing. His fingers are streaked with ketchup. Then he stops, picks up a French fry and licks the ketchup off his finger. A few seconds later, he’s rubbing his eyes again.

“Hjkghfj,” he says, and then eats another French fry.

I seriously need to make some LWBS girlfriends.

Professor Rothman is extremely handsome. He’s almost six feet tall and has sandy-blond hair. And he’s in his mid-thirties, tops.

Who knew professors could look like this?

For the first time, all the women in the class are sitting in the front two rows.

Rothman lifts his muscled arm and writes GDP = C+I+ (X-M)+G on the blackboard. I copy the new equation.

“Does anyone know what the letters represent?” he asks.

I raise my hand. “The C signifies consumer goods. The I signifies investment goods. The…” Think! Think! I know this! “The X-M signifies exports minus imports and the G signifies government spending.”

“Well done,” he says, and smiles. Wow. That’s what I want. A gorgeous, intelligent man. A man who knows his numbers. I look away and continue taking notes. He’s talking too fast to stop. I’ve already written eleven pages, and my hand is starting to hurt. I can’t believe he’s teaching so much in the first class.

The bell rings, and I finish the sentence. I insert my notes into the second section of my Tuesday/Thursday binder, then hole-punch and add the sheets he handed out at the beginning of class. I hope I didn’t miss anything.

“Professor Rothman?” I ask, waving my hand toward him, and a smile lights up his face.

“You can call me Jon,” he says, and then looks at the nameplate that’s still on my desk. “Miss Roth.”

“I’m Layla,” I reply. He’s so approachable! “Will videotapes of your lectures be available at the library?”

“Yes, the videotapes will be available.” He rubs the back of his arm against his chin. “And I would also like to tell you that your contribution today was excellent.”

Yes! “Thanks, sir. I mean, Jon. I’ve always enjoyed working with unknown variables.”

“I’m looking forward to having you in my class this year.” He continues to hold my gaze. All right. Time to look away. Why isn’t he looking away? I smile, look down, close my binder, zip up the rolling bag I bought so I wouldn’t strain my back and roll it down the hall.

What was up with that? Why is the professor flirting with me? That is so inappropriate.

Integrative Communications is the only class I have that’s not in room 103. IC is in room 207, and I’m looking forward to the change of scenery.

I walk around the podium, sit myself down in the front row and arrange a new area in my binder. The class slowly fills up behind me. A few minutes later, a woman with frizzy red hair and a big smile walks in clapping her hands.

“Hello, everyone, hello,” she says as people bustle to their seats. She cups her ear with her hand. “Sorry? I didn’t hear you.” No one speaks. “That’s your cue to say hello back.”

“Hello,” we mumble.

“Shy ones, are you? This is no place for shyness! One of the most vital aspects to speaking in public is confidence. Let me hear that confidence!”

“Hello!” we say. My hello is especially loud.

“Excellent! I can see I am going to have a wonderful time with you!” She smiles down at me and I smile back.

“My name is Cindy Swiley,” she says, and presses a button on her laptop. The title, Professor Cindy Swiley, flashes in red across the screen. “But you can all call me Cindy.” Professor and Swiley fade away, leaving a gradually expanding Cindy. “I’ll be teaching you Integrative Communications for the next six weeks.” New slide appears. “In this class, you will learn how to present. How to handle questions. How to speak without notes. You will be giving two presentations, one halfway through the class and one as your final exam. Your midterm will be videotaped, and then reviewed and critiqued by me. But I’m sure you’ll all do fantastic!”

I can’t wait! At twenty past four the bell rings. I pile my belongings together, then return to the computer terminal to check my e-mail.

Dear Ms. Roth,

Congratulations! You have been accepted to the Carry the Torch Committee. Please be in room 302 on the third floor of the Katz building on Friday at 9:00 a.m. for an informational briefing.

Yes! I would pat myself on the back, but I still haven’t purchased more of those antibacterial wipes.