That first Halloween party at college would prove to be a personal marker. My college career would go on to be filled with similar social pitfalls.
At that time I was an effervescent mixture of confidence, inexperience, casual drug use, and pre-9/11 positivity, embarking on a degree program in English literature with a minor in anthropology – or as it is commonly referred to as The Upper-Middleclass Parent’s Rout – due to the fact that an entire 18 years of shepherding, guiding, saving, and planning could be utterly decimated by the miscarriage of such academic aspirations.
Because my passion for writing and reading had been set in stone years before I had no hesitation in choosing a major.
But it wasn’t until I actually began my college courses that I made the decision on my minor focus in anthropology.
And it was because of one professor in particular that I took a shining to Anthropology - Dr. Leo Richardson.
I’d taken his intro to anthropology class in order to meet some basic requirements but I was immediately interested in the subject and in no small part due to Dr. Richardson’s zeal.
He was the type of professor that you imagined college faculties would be filled with.
Dr. Richardson was enthusiastic about archaeology, history, and the entirety of humanity’s past, as well as their future!
As a veteran archaeologist and professor he was eager to share his experiences, talk about archaeological digs in which he’d participated, describe the unique shards of pottery he himself had uncovered, pontificate on the importance of mudbricks, and explain how ancient bones could reveal whether or not prehistoric craftsmen spent a lot of time squatting while working.
Sure, on the surface it all seems like pretty tepid stuff.
But, if you are like me and curious how the world’s sick twisted past could influence and reflect the world’s sick twisted future than these types of classes would be right up your alley.
My early literary classes were filled with pretty standard readings and pretty standard discussions.
The professors were well read and practiced instructors but they tended to blandly recite their lectures and were certainly lacking the unbridled eagerness that was simmering within my anthropology classes at the time.
I don’t want to be too harsh on my English courses, they were good classes and I was exposed to great works and new perspectives. Those classes would become the infrastructure of my writing and literary interests.
However I absolutely believe that an understanding of history, culture, and people in general is critical to any type of writing.
My English coursework was the bones of my writing but anthropology would become the soul of that writing.
Dr. Richardson was an intriguing figure. He was enthusiastic as I mentioned, but also captivating in a strange way due to his almost childlike eagerness to share his decades of experience.
However such eagerness can often be deflected by the pervasive shield of apathy and cynicism within college lecture halls. It was clear that most of my classmates were not as fascinated by this excitable archaeologist as I was.
Sure, Dr. Richardson was corny as hell. The man was a walking compendium of dad jokes.
He also enjoyed using out-of-date pop culture references to explain various aspects of anthropology. Mentioning the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy while discussing commercial archaeology seemed to confound many of my peers in the seats around me. However it was these unexpected gems which even further endeared the man to me.
And of course when I actually understood some of those references it gave me a, completely unwarranted, sense of superiority to my fellow students who were uninitiated in the deeper realms of nerdom.
All of that being said it was safe to say that Dr. Richardson would not be considered ‘cool’ on any scale which could measure the term.
However when you got past the goofy, giddy exterior and actually listened to the stories and lessons he was discussing you could see the shadow of an Indiana Jones type hidden somewhere within him. You had to squint, but you could see it.
It helped if you were across the room too. And if he was wearing a hat.
But it was definitely there.
Almost immediately I viewed Leo Richardson as a sort of mentor.
I was determined to apply myself in my anthropological studies if for no other reason than to gain the admiration of this learned academic.
However at one point, after building a casual rapport with the affable professor, I nearly shit the proverbial bed.
I was taking Archaeology II and it was early in the semester. One of our first big projects in that class was called the ‘Unidentified Artifact Field Book’.
Basically the assignment was that Dr. Richardson would reveal an average, everyday household item to the class and each student was to assume the role of an archaeologist who had just uncovered said object during one of their excavations. The twist of this project however was that the students had to approach the object as if we had absolutely no knowledge of what it was or what it was used for.
Dr. Richardson explained that typically he would use a fork, screwdriver, earring, or some other simple, unassuming doodad as the subject.
The job of the student was to apply what we’d learned in class and use context clues, stratigraphic information, and other surrounding artifacts discovered nearby at this fictional dig site and present an informed theory regarding what this item might be and what it might have been used for.
Dr. Richardson added another caveat to the assignment – stating that this project was one of his favorites of the semester and as such he liked to award a prize to the student with the best presentation. The prize awarded would be one of the professor’s favorite novels.
Ah, a literary prize! Even more incentive for me to win! It could offer yet another point of conversation in which I could strengthen my kinship with this jovial Indiana Jones.
On top of all that, Dr. Richardson also mentioned he had something particularly special planned for our class.
Since my class was relatively small and the students generally more attentive than his other classes, Dr. Richardson decided to use a more unusual item as the titular unidentified object for our project.
The pressure was mounting.
When the time came Dr. Richardson stood behind his desk and revealed a trombone.
Yes, the long brass slide instrument with a large bell and funny name. A trombone. Not a fork. Not a screwdriver. But the ageless marching band staple, the trombone.
The professor held the instrument up and unceremoniously dropped it on his desktop.
It was old and beaten up. Dull and dented. Dr. Richardson explained he’d seen it at a flea market and decided to buy it on a whim, specifically for this purpose.
Now of course you will remember, I know a thing or two about trombones.
I fostered a begrudging respect for the instrument during my misguided years in middle and high school band. During my time in band I’d reveled in sweeping love affairs and shrunk away from ego shattering embarrassments - all within the sphere of influence of the trombone.
So, obviously it was going to be particularly challenging to divorce myself from all knowledge and preconceived notions regarding the instrument, as the project required.
Carrying the trombone to a nearby corner of the room, Dr. Richardson sat it down and gave us our final instructions.
“Ok, so here is your assignment.” He told us, probably.
(I’m not a stenographer I don’t know what his exact words were.)
“You have been part of an extensive archaeological dig, you’ve worked through various layers of sediment and uncovered this room!” He said, flailing his arms wide to indicate our surroundings.
“The corner here, has just been revealed, and you see THIS!” He pointed to the trombone.
“But you have no idea what it is! No idea what it could be used for! It is a cultural artifact new to modern science and history and you must now use your extensive training to put forth the very first theories regarding its possible use!
“The only context you have to work with are these nearby filing cabinets and that rag on the floor next to the object. The rest of the room remains yet to be revealed. Now let’s begin by sketching the area with a numbered grid!”
I began to contemplate my approach to the project as I doodled the corner of the class.
My project had to be good, had to be original, and something that would really stand out from everyone else.
Then, as I sat there, a terrible idea sprang into my thoughts.
As terrible as it was, in that moment it was seemingly a spark of genius.
I did a quick survey of my fellow students, to try and gauge the competition. There were a couple fairly witty students to consider as threats but I was pretty certain none of them would come close to the ingeniously terrible idea I’d had and by the time I was back at my dorm room desk compiling my thoughts my mind was made up.
For my archaeology project, I was going to present the theory that this trombone was in fact, an ancient sex toy.
The days of preparation came and went. This was not only a major project for the semester but a presentation made before the entire class.
As my presentation time approached I double checked the requirements for the project, ensuring my materials met all of the criteria.
The two presentations before me were a couple of uninspired yawn-fests.
I could almost see Dr. Richardson’s eyes glazing over with boredom.
The first kid theorized that the trombone was in fact some sort of farming equipment, with the rag belonging to a laborer and the filing cabinets containing harvest records.
I found their evidence to be lacking and their rationale unconvincing.
The second presentation was even worse.
They had the gall to present the theory that the trombone was in fact some ancient form of – musical instrument.
I’m still not entirely sure if they were going for irony or simply missed the point of the assignment.
But when it came to be my turn I was feeling good about my material – that novel would be mine.
As I stepped to the front of the class and took the floor my confidence was overflowing!
In my mind this presentation was to be the culmination of my collegiate studies up to that point – a perfect blending of my literary creativity and anthropological scientific training. Not to mention perhaps the start of a burgeoning acting career – for I was about to embody the lampooned presence of this preeminent scientist who was explaining a theory in which they thoroughly believed this trombone, was without a doubt, an ancient sex toy.
To start off I turned to a large flip chart beside me and tore away the first page to reveal, in large bold print, my theory’s title: The Perfect Tool to Bone Alone - Pleasure and Self Gratification in the Ancient World.
Almost immediately my audience was with me.
There were a few smirks and quiet gasps from my fellow students as I revealed the title but as I launched into my presentation the chuckles and giggles began, building into genuine laughter as I presented the work with an overly deadpan expression which had the desired effect of making clear the humorous intent of my project.
That laughter would fuel the rest of my time at the head of the room.
I went on to explain that the instrument’s placement and the surrounding artifacts were key to determining that this was an ingenious tool of masturbatory intent.
Likewise the unique shape, movement and design of the artifact could serve no singular purpose other than for those quiet moments when ancient peoples were alone with their thoughts.
Certainly such an ungainly object and something so gaudy in appearance would not be carried around in public spaces and if done so would no doubt instantly reveal the users shame or at the very least make clear their unsatisfied sexual status.
I went on to explain my ideas regarding the artifact’s actual use.
Impressing upon my fellow students that the artifact was most likely a universal self-pleasure tool able to be used by both men and women.
The large bell end was undoubtedly a receptacle for the male genitalia – the entry void being wide enough and the accompanying shaft long enough to accommodate any willing phallus. The rag found at the site was most likely stuffed into the bell during use to heighten the sensation and in-turn could possibly be filled with any other manner of material.
On the other hand the elongated slide feature was clearly meant to stimulate female genitalia in a completely different but appropriate manner.
I put forth the idea that the slide by itself could be used for manual external stimulation or with the addition of attachments (though any evidence of such equipment remained unsubstantiated) could mean that penetration might also be achieved when using the object.
Either way, ancient female users of the device could just as easily benefit from the object by operating the artifact with their hands or possibly even using their feet.
As I went through my presentation I mentally checked off all the requirements in my mind.
My classmate’s reactions were exactly what I was hoping for and my self-confidence during the presentation reached such a peak that by the time I concluded I could only describe my attitude as swaggering.
At the very end I broke my faux academic deadpan and allowed myself to smirk a little as the class continued to laugh.
I took a glance over at Dr. Richardson, hoping to gage his reaction – perhaps catching sight of him already bringing over the grand prize.
But when I saw his expression my swagger evaporated.
Dr. Richardson was sitting at his desk, more accurately he was slumped down in his chair –as if he was trying to hide behind the institutional gunmetal grey piece of furniture.
His face had lost its enthusiastic ruddiness and was uncharacteristically pale.
His typically disheveled hair was even more so, almost standing straight up. His eyes were wide behind his large framed glasses and his lips were pulled back in a grimace which he was clearly trying to disguise as a smile.
He didn’t like it.
The light of the world fled from me. I now stood in the center of the room and it seemed like no one was left on the planet.
I’d gone too far. I’d offended him, embarrassed him. Of course I had!
“I can fix this . . . .” I thought to myself in a panic. Except I had no idea how exactly.
Why would I expect this cornball, innocent, pun factory – this Labrador of a man – to be impressed with such an uncouth and inappropriate presentation within his realm of enlightened education?
Suddenly my evenings of pot induced inspiration were twisted into pot induced paranoia.
I replayed the presentation in my mind and suddenly it was a horror show. I especially regretted proposing the trombone’s spit valve as a possible device intended for easy cleanup.
Thankfully the class period was nearly over.
I quickly gathered up my materials and took my seat.
Dr. Richardson slowly shuffled up to the front of the class looking like someone who had just witnessed a murder. He made his usual end of class reminders, reciting the words with a vacant tone.
The class was released and the rest of my day continued beneath the shadow of that strange, amazing, and shameful moment.
Thankfully it was a Friday.
My college weekend of smoking and drinking completely swept the moment from my mind, as well as most of the other moments from the week.
However as the following Tuesday rolled around and I made my way back to archaeology class I was struck with renewed dread.
As I got to class however I saw a trio of my classmates milling about outside the door. They were looking over a note posted on the window.
“No class today. –Dr. Richardson”
There were some text readings listed for homework, but no reason given for the cancellation.
I could only assume it was because of me.
I must have utterly demolished this porcelain professor and also shattered any respect I’d been able to garner with him up to this point.
I took the opportunity of the canceled class to check my mailbox – it had been awhile since I visited the post office and I had a couple of comic books waiting for me which could provide some solace during this panicked moment.
When I picked up my mail I found a small rectangular package, wrapped entirely in plain brown paper and tied with string.
Curious, I immediately unwrapped the package and was surprised to see a paperback novel inside.
It was Doctor Who and the Robots of Death one of the numerous novels from the old British sci-fi show Doctor Who (which at that time had yet to be revived in its modern incarnation).
Tucked into the book was a lined index card with a hand written note from Dr. Richardson which simply read – “Congratulations! Top Marks!”
As I would later learn Robots of Death was one of Dr. Richardson’s favorite of the Who books and this particular book would go on to spark a great many geeky and academic conversations between Professor Richardson and myself.
In that moment however I was incredibly relieved.
As I examined my first place prize I noticed that the author of Doctor Who and the Robots of Death was an individual by the name of Terrance Dicks.
Which seemed like the perfect capper to the entire affair.
I found myself laughing hysterically as I left the post office and made my way to my next class.