Free Higher Education by Lisa Pliscou

the Phil 169 chap returns. “The department copier is working again,” he says, in the tone of one who has just witnessed a healing at Lourdes.
    â€œWell, that’s good.”
    â€œYes.” Tenderly he hands me the folder. “Thanks again for your help.”
    I feel an odd stab of—what? Remorse? “You’re welcome.”
    â€œWell, good night.” He starts to open his satchel for me but I wave him away. “Thanks, miss. Have a good evening.”
    â€œYou too.” I stand up and start rattling the keys again. “Closing time, folks,” I call out. Prowling through the other two sections I find only Raphael Manini, star philosophy graduate student, celebrated wunderkind of the department, ace teaching fellow and already a published author of several articles on postmodern existentialism. “Hey, Raphael. It’s closing time.”
    Using his folded arms for a pillow, Raphael snores peacefully with his head face-down on the tabletop.
    â€œHey. Wake up. It’s time to go.” I tap his shoulder.
    â€œWha?” Abruptly he bolts straight up in his chair, unfocused eyes blinking in terror. “Jesus,” he gasps. “Why’d you creep up on me like that?”
    â€œIt’s my job,” I explain. “It’s closing time.”
    â€œOh.” Still batting his eyes, he twitches his shirt into place. “I guess that means you’re kicking me out.”
    â€œThere’s a Holiday Inn a few blocks away.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I can take a hint.” Slowly he collects his books, papers, pens, pencils, slide rule, Scotch tape, compass, rubber bands, eyeglasses, cigarettes, lighter, and miniature stapler and stuffs them into a crisp white Lord & Taylor shopping bag and stands up. Yawning, he takes a comb out of his back pocket and runs it through what’s left of his hair. “You a philosophy major?” he asks me for the twentieth time.
    â€œNo, I’m an East Asian–studies major.” Last time I was majoring in folklore and mythology. The time before that, as I recall, it was biology.
    â€œNo wonder I never see you in any of my courses.”
    â€œWell.” I clear my throat. “I’ll just be closing up now, I guess.”
    â€œInterested in auditing Phil 180? I know it’s a little late in the semester, but I’ll help you catch up on the reading list.”
    â€œMaybe next term.” I drift back to my desk, where Michael is stamping the desk blotter with the ROBBINS LIBRARY OF PHILOSOPHY ink stamp, humming under his breath.
    â€œHaving fun, darling?” Perching on the arm of his chair, I breathe in the warm familiar scent of his neck.
    â€œSimple pleasures, gal.”
    The phone rings, and I reach over Michael to pick up the receiver. “Robbins. Can I help you?”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œHi, Jessie. How are you?”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œWell what?”
    â€œWell, are you?”
    â€œWell, am I what?”
    â€œDon’t be a dope, Miranda,” she says crossly.
    â€œOh.” I nod farewell to Raphael, who furtively grips his Lord & Taylor bag to his abdomen. “No, I guess I’m not.”
    â€œWell, thank god. You dumbshit.”
    â€œHey,” I protest. “You’ve already called me a dumbshit today.” I snatch my hand away from Michael, who’s begun stamping my forearm with the date stamp which he has set for June 24, his birthday. “Can’t you think of another nasty name to call me?”
    â€œYou’re absolutely right. I apologize.”
    â€œApology accepted.”
    â€œThank you. Shithead.”
    â€œDerivative, but it’ll have to do. Why am I a shithead?”
    â€œThanks for letting me know, shithead. What do you think I’ve been doing all day, out shopping for little pink booties?”
    â€œOh dear.” I clamp a hand across my forehead. “I’m sorry, Jessie. I’m