Eloise Earle Sat Next To Me

Eloise Earle Sat Next To Me

By Thomas M. McDade (594-Words)

The first theme Eloise Earle’s read was about a rodeo bull rider. She squeezed in Faulkner’s use of the doppelganger. There were twins in Faulkner’s fire story. She had the gall to name the rider after a character in the tale. After she finished reciting, she announced Brahma riding life was for her. I wondered if Miss Horan made a written comment about rodeo animal abuse under the mark. I thought the always-present peace symbol pin suggested she had many axes to grind and it seemed out of sync with the big rock on her finger. Eloise oozed confidence. I imagined bruises from spills that I wouldn’t have minded soothing with healing lotions. My hazel eyes met her pale blues at her first unexpected “hello.” Her complexion was flawless. I thought she was too dainty to be bucking around on the backs of bulls. Her neck-length hair was auburn. Musk perfume trailed her.

There was a genuine cowboy in the class named Craig who aspired to be an FBI agent. I don’t know how many gallons his hat would rate. His face was small. His boots carried in earth and more. A deep breath could bring a mix of musk and manure. He scored points with Miss Horan because he’d done extra reading and mentioned Faulkner’s “Spotted Horses,” in his page three presentation. He’d held up a cookie. “The Texan in the story loved gingersnaps,” he announced before popping it into his mouth. Miss Horan told him to find synonyms for “excite.” He’d used it three times.

Mike Mallory was from Massachusetts. He’d driven to Boulder to be with his girlfriend Mary. He wrote about losing his ambulance-driving job for running a red light while taking an overdose victim to the hospital. That dismissal sounded either far-fetched or criminal. A garbage-hauling company was happy to hire him. He went sentimental about Mary sticking with him and wasn’t embarrassed about his gig. “There was no Faulkner, Hawthorn, Fitzgerald, Thurber or Conrad or anyone from the textbook heading for the ER in that ambulance was there?” Miss Horan asked. She looked pleased with her comment. Mike reddened but responded, “Hemingway drove an ambulance in the Great War.” Miss Horan surprised me by saying “touché.”

In the hall before a class I overheard stooped-shouldered Carson Miller who looked like he’d skipped shaving for a week or more joking. “Mary must be desperate to stick with a smelly trash man.” I pictured Miller on all fours sniffing the floor like a slave owner’s bloodhound. He snickered and slapped himself on the thigh. I knew Mike came to class straight from work. My nose never picked up an aroma of swill. The musk and ranch shit must have provided camouflage. Miss Horan did twitch her nose more than once but she never resorted to potpourri or incense. Miller loved German cars especially BMWs. “They leave Audis, Peugeots, Alfa Romeos and Porsches in their deluxe dust. As for American heaps, better off with Billy Faulkner’s Abner the arsonist’s wagon,” he said trying to grin like a man who'd just won the Indy 500. Could my eyes have tricked Miss Horan’s lips into miming “horse shit?” What brand of car did Miller drive, a VW?” It wasn’t long before I found out. He was walking toward a bus stop but did a quick U-turn when he saw me but Eloise did not. She wasn’t running toward me like I was a matador teasing with a red cape but her gait was brisk and determined. I speculated.

Thomas M. McDade