Professor Gloupe trudged wearily into his office and let the door slam behind him, rattling the window dangerously. He didn’t care if it shattered or not. If it did, it was only following the pattern his life was taking, anyway. His feet scuffed the well-worn rug as he crossed to his desk and dropped into the cracked leather chair, receiving a little nip from it, as usual. Sighing heavily, he took inventory of his night. About a thousand papers to grade, and hours of work prepping for the next lecture awaited him, as usual. The alternative was worse, though: going home to a nagging wife and a couple of ungrateful kids. They were always complaining about him, and never had the decency to do it behind his back. No, it was always to his face, as if they were trying to hurt him! Didn’t they understand that he did it all for them? Didn’t they get that it was all so they could have the life they now enjoy? Why couldn’t they be a little more grateful?
Sonja understood. She might only be a student, but she was more worldly than the others. She knew the sacrifices he made. She knew what it took to get ahead in life, to earn the good things. She was a lot more sympathetic than Gladys, his wife, that’s for sure! If only he wasn’t married, and maybe a couple of years younger…
He put the thought out of his head. It was making his brain hurt, and he needed that organ if he was going to get through the evening. The bottle of whiskey caught the corner of his eye, then his full attention. It was a gag gift, and at the time he’d taken it in good stride. A ten year anniversary, they had said when they presented it, and a way to make it through ten more. Everyone laughed, even him; he didn’t drink, and had no use for it, but he’d laughed and kept it in his office as a momento. Those were good times. Happy times. Whatever happened to them?
He reached for the bottle, still unopened after years of sitting on his shelf. It wasn’t cheap, so it wouldn’t have gone bad. He’d heard others say it took the edge off, and he really needed some dulling right then. What could it hurt? After all, it was his to use as he wished.
He found his coffee mug and wiped it out with a facial tissue, then twisted the bottle open and covered the bottom of the mug with the amber liquid. It looked like an oily mud puddle, but he slurped it down, and gagged and coughed as it burned his throat. Wrinkling his nose at the bottle, he wondered, not ironically, why people called the stuff smooth.
A knock at the door distracted him from the bottle. A lithe shadow stood framed in the opaque glass, the head seeming to turn as if glancing up and down the hallway. For the first time, Professor Gloupe thanked heaven that no one could see through the window. He hastily tucked the bottle in a drawer and tossed the remaining whiskey in his mug to the ficus in the corner before he called for whoever it was to enter.
For some strange reason, he expected it to be Sonja. She had a habit of showing up between classes with one question or another, always in a short skirt or a tight blouse or both. And the questions she asked always left him wondering, after their meeting, why the girl was even in his Theoretical Physics class at all, if she had such trouble understanding the material. The girl who entered, though, wasn’t Sonja. It wasn’t anyone he recognized at all.
“Professor Gloupe?” the girl asked. “May I ask you something?”
Her confidence was surprising, for a student with questions. A little intrigued, he motioned for her to enter and said, “What’s your question?”
“Do you really doubt the possibility of time travel,” she asked in a tone that hinted at some knowledge of the subject, “Given the Heisenberg-Rosen string theory?”
“Heisenberg-Rosen has nothing to do with time travel,” he reminded her patiently, his hope fading that he’d actually found a student that understood the material. “Neither does string theory.”
“Dimensional access isn’t merely across planes of space,” she replied. “Time is also a dimension of the greater Multi-verse, and to ignore it in any calculation does it, and physics in general, a great disservice.”
“And,” he smirked humorously, “What comic book did you read that from?”
“It’s a known fact,” she told him with the same assurance she might use to say the sky was blue. Then, she backed off and mumbled, “Well, it is where I come from.”
“And, where is that, my dear?” he asked, anxious to find out what curriculum had filled her with such nonsense.
“You wouldn’t know it,” she told him confidently.
“Try me,” he told her, readying himself for her later disillusionment.
She looked at him for a moment, her face unreadable, then she said, “Maybe I should just get to the point.”
“Please do,” he told her, feeling the triumph already. Usually, it was only the ones that had no clue what they were talking about that dithered like that.
“On your way home tonight,” she told him, “Get the kitten.”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, thrown for a loop. It wasn’t exactly what he expected her to say.
“Get the kitten,” she gently insisted. “For your own good.”
“What kitten?” he demanded, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“The one at the shelter,” she told him. “The black and white runt that they don’t expect to live, or ever get adopted. The one missing one eye. Adopt him.”
“Do you work at that shelter or something?” he ventured, wondering if that was the new way of soliciting adoptions, door-to-door.
“No,” she told him. “But a few days from now, you and your family will go there for a university event, and your kids will fall in love with it. You will refuse to take it, making your kids despise you even more and alienating Gladys for good.”
He leaned forward and peered suspiciously at the girl. Now that he thought about it, he had never seen anyone like her at any of his lectures. He was sure he would recognize her rainbow hair and that wild cut anywhere. He quietly demanded, “Who are you?”
“I’m the one advising you to adopt a kitten,” she told him. “And, I’m the one trying to save your career.”
He scowled deeply at her, then it hit him and he erupted. “How do you know my wife’s name? How do you know -?”
He stopped himself before he gave away any family secrets. How did she know that his kids hated him, or that his relationship with Gladys was so tenuous? It made him furious enough to demand, “Are you spying on me and my family?”
“I don’t need to,” she calmly replied. “Where I’m from, your problems are a matter of common knowledge.”
“And, where is that?” he heatedly demanded.
“The future,” she simply told him.
He waited a moment for the punchline, then snapped, “That’s what you’re going with?”
She nodded, and he exploded again. “You’re telling me you’re from the future?”
That time, she didn’t nod; she just looked at him seriously. He took a breath to keep himself from saying the wrong thing, then snapped, “And you expect me to believe that?”
“You can believe what you like,” she told him. “I’m just here to make sure you do the right thing.”
“Like what?” he demanded. “Adopting a damaged kitten?”
She didn’t reply, and it was hard to look at her passive expression without wanting to slap it off her face. He restrained himself and instead snapped, “I wouldn’t take it, anyway! I hate cats! Now, get out and peddle your pets somewhere else!”
“I’m not here for anyone else,” she replied. “And I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”
“Oh, yes you are!” he said, rising. He’d had enough. If she wasn’t going to leave on her own, then he was going to throw her out! But even as he made his way around the desk, she placidly remarked, “It would be a grave mistake to have that affair with Sonja. She’s just in it for the grades, and anything else she can get out of you.”
He stopped in his tracks and stared. Sonja? How did she know about that? How could she possibly know what he was just thinking about? Then, he knew, or thought he did, and asked, accusingly, “How long have you been watching me?”
“I’ve known about you my entire life,” she told him. “You could say I even care about what happens to you.”
He stared at her, searching for any sign of deceit or sarcasm, finding none. She looked completely sincere. He was still staring, not knowing what to make of her, when she added, “For your sake, you have to learn to control your temper. It will be your downfall.”
Now, he had her! He said, “I thought not having a kitten was my downfall!”
“There are many factors involved,” she said clinically. “And only one cure.”
His face scrunched up skeptically, and, his tone riddled with scorn, he demanded, “Who are you, and why are you picking on me?”
She studied him for a moment, as if sizing him up for something, then she said, “Let me tell you a story.”
Tales of a Tired Daddy 