Free Noah's Turn by Ken Finkleman

running pool dribbled under large slabs of shale. A few people were standing in the mild night air smoking cigarettes. Noah heard what sounded like an angry commotion and noticed that someone who looked like a student was arguing in a slightly threatening way with a man and his wife. Noah moved closer. He could see that the student wasn’t a danger. It was clear that he was attacking the author’s reputation rather than the couple, but he was drunk and seemed slightly unpredictable.
    â€œHe’s a fucking fraud!” the student spat, jabbing a finger at the couple.
    â€œMaybe you should leave,” the man said.
    â€œFuck off. I have as much right to be here as you do. I go to this fucking college and I take a fucking course from the great writer being honoured here tonight andhe is not just a fraud but a fucking liar who’s jealous of my work. This prick is competitive with his best students, mainly male students, not the pretty little girls, because we make him look like the fucking mediocre hack he really is. So fuck you! And fuck him and his fucking event!”
    At this point the student moved closer to the couple. Noah, feeling quite drunk, stepped in.
    â€œI think you better leave.” Noah tried to say this without slurring his words.
    â€œFuck you,” the student replied with a contemptuous drawn-out “youuu.”
    â€œI said, you should leave,” Noah repeated more aggressively, slurring “should.”
    â€œAnd I said, fuck you,” the student replied, poking a finger into Noah’s chest.
    The finger triggered an explosive and inappropriate rage in Noah that had nothing to do with the circumstances. It came from somewhere else, somewhere deep inside. It was the need to hit, to punish. Noah dropped his glass of wine and with both hands pushed the student as hard as he could, sending him backwards, tripping and falling into the shallow water and landing against one of the slate slabs.
    â€œGet the fuck out of here, asshole!” Noah shrieked with perfect articulation, making the onlookers take a step back. The student crawled out of the water and left through the garden gate. There were murmurs to the effect that “someone had to do something,” but it was clear that Noah had gone too far. After all, these were literary people, who worked out their differences with words, not with fists. There had been too much rage in Noah and no one wanted to get too close. The smokers went back inside. Noah stood in the dark, his head spinning. Had he defended that scumbag McEwen? Or was this about something else he didn’t understand? He felt sick and decided to walk home to get some air.

10
Shit Happens
    T he next Wednesday, McEwen called to set up a squash game at the university for eight o’clock that night. He had already booked a court. Noah was pissed off at McEwen’s assumption that he could set a game without any notice and wanted to pass, but he didn’t. They arranged to meet at McEwen’s university office at seven-thirty and walk to the gym from there.
    Noah arrived at the building with his racket, shorts, sneakers and T-shirt rolled into a bundle. The main door was open until eight and he took the elevator to the fourth floor. This was a staff office building and no one was around at this hour. He found his way to McEwen’s small office and knocked. McEwen opened the door holding a portable phone. He was on a call.
    â€œCome. Sit,” McEwen whispered, covering the mouthpiece. He indicated one of two guest chairs in the cramped, book-filled space, then sat and swivelled away from Noah to face his desk, which was pushed up against the wall beneath a large double-pane window with the blind down for nighttime privacy. You wouldn’t want to interview female students at night with the lights on and blind up, Noah thought. That would be like fucking in a fishbowl. The door swung closed by itself. Noah imagined McEwen’s