| Connie and Vito and Me |
I should have known I was in trouble when I found out she was married to an Italian. She was a good looking woman, so I didn’t mind when she kept stopping by my office to chat. She was a fairly decent student; nothing special. She was no great intellect, but she came to class, she listened, and she did the assignments. And that, my friends, is how to succeed in college. It’s pretty simple, but it’s a lesson that takes some time to learn. That’s why I liked teaching night classes; the mix included more adults.
Connie was certainly an adult. No skinny teenager, she was round and firm and fully packed. I’d put her age at thirty-five, give or take a year or two. She had a teenage boy. She also had a husband that she was bored with. She was on the prowl, and a college class is a good place to meet new friends. In this case she set her cap for the teacher, which was me.
Oh, Lordy. Why did it have to be me?
As I say, she kept coming by my office, flirting, dropping hints. I didn’t pay much attention because she was married. There is some trouble up with which I will not put, to quote Winston Churchill. It was innocent kidding around, or so I thought until one night she showed up at my apartment. I don’t know how she found out where I lived. I don’t suppose it was any secret; it was in the phone book. Anyway, there she was. Oh, she was so sorry she had missed class the night before; she wanted to turn in her assignment. Never mind the fact that she could have put it in my box at school. That didn’t occur to me at the moment, however. I invited her in. We sat around and had a pleasant chat and even a drink or two.
What happened next happened very fast, and I’m not sure I can remember all the details, but I’ll try. I was in the bathroom relieving my bladder when I heard the doorbell ring. When I opened the door, this little guy with dark, curly hair was standing there. He was built like a block of cement. “Hiya, Professor,” he said. “Mind if I come in and join the party?” And in he came. He checked out the living area of my small apartment, and then disappeared into my bedroom. I followed. Connie was in my bed, to all appearances naked. She was clutching the bedclothes to her bosom, looking at the intruder with wide eyes.
“Well, well, well,” said the little man. “Isn’t this cozy.” He told his wife to get dressed and join us in the living room. We were going to have a little chat.
“By the way,” he said, as he settled into an armchair, “I’m Connie’s husband, Vito Cesari. I guess you figured that out, huh, Professor?” I nodded. “Look,” I said, “It’s not what you think. Nothing happened, I swear.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said.
A contrite Connie joined us and sat demurely on the couch. Vito smiled. No, it wasn’t exactly a smile. It was more of a “you’re a dead man” grimace. “So,” he said. “You two got the hots for each other?” “Oh, no,” I said. “Good grief, Connie’s your wife. I wouldn’t…” Vito held up one hand, and I stopped talking. “That’s the way it is? Then that’s the way it is. Connie, you want this guy, he’s yours. Bye, bye. It was nice knowing you.”
Vito stood up, and I did, too. “Mr. Cesari,” I said, “It’s not what you think, appearances not withstanding. Blah, blah, blah.” I rattled on about the sanctity of marriage and all the wonderful things that his wife had told me about him and how much a child needed a mother and how one shouldn’t leap to conclusions and the unreliability of circumstantial evidence and everything else that I could think of that just might–if somehow a miracle occurred–get me off the hook.
When I finished he looked at me and shook his head. “I’m leaving,” he said. And that’s what he did. To my relief Connie followed him five minutes later.
Connie called me the next day. She told me that Vito had threatened violence; she said she thought he’d calm down, but she wasn’t sure. I asked her how he had known where to find her. She said it was her fault. She had left a slip of paper with my name and address on it on the kitchen table.
For months after that I was careful to stay out of dark alleys and to always lock my door. I didn’t go out at night, and when I was out and about, I kept my eyes peeled for swarthy men in fedoras and black suits.
To this day I do not watch gangster movies. I may be the only person on the face of the planet who did not see a single episode of The Sopranos.
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