Political Science 101

Chapter Eight

THE WEATHER was unseasonably warm for a Midwest November afternoon as Mitch walked across the Merriam University campus after teaching his last class of the day; an upper-level class on international relations and foreign policy. It was difficult to keep the mere seven students in the class from seeing that even Mitch found the material to be dull and boring. As he looked around, he admired how green the campus grass was, and he noticed the trees were also mostly green, only showing the slightest signs of autumn; as though they were fighting it, resisting Mother Nature's autumnal schedule.

Mitch approached his car, got in, and immediately rolled down the window (or rather, made the windows go down with the push of a button; he immediately thought of Ana). "Come on, Mitchell, just call her," he said aloud to himself. He pulled the scrap of paper from the inner pocket of his blazer — the paper Ana had given him the night before. Having no plans for the evening, he decided to give her a call. "Five-eight-six," he said aloud as he dialed her number into his iPhone, "three-nine-eight-two."

It rang.

"Hello, Cuyahoga Sheet Metal," a burly voice answered. Mitch immediately deduced that the owner of this deep and overtly-male voice likely bought his clothes in the big-and-tall section.

"Uh, hi," Mitch said, "You don't, by chance have someone working there named Ana, do you?"

"No," the large voice replied, "nobody here by that name."

"Didn't think so," Mitch muttered dejectedly. He hung-up without further salutation, collapsing his hands into his lap; one hand holding his iPhone, one hand grasping his sacred scrap of paper. "A bum phone number," Mitch said to the open air of his car. He looked down at his phone and scrolled back to the number he just dialed. Then he looked at the paper; then he looked at his phone; then at the paper; then at his phone. "Wow," he said sarcastically, not realizing (or caring about) the frequency at which he tended to speak aloud to himself. "Five-eight-six," he spoke again to the enclosure of his car, "three-eight-nine-six." He shook his head at himself, giving his own eyes a disgusted look in the rearview mirror. "I'm a dumbass," he said to himself in the mirror, grinning as he thought of Charles Barkley.

Mitch dialed the correct number, fervently making sure to give each number key a specific forceful push.

The phone rang.

The phone rang again.

The phone rang a third time.

Mitch pulled the phone away from his ear and motioned his thumb toward the End button.

"Hello?" a voice said through the phone in front of Mitch's face. He immediately returned the phone to his ear.

"Ana?" Mitch said cautiously, hoping this time he didn't call Tire World or something.

"Yeah?" she said inquisitively. "Who is this?" the sound of her chewing on what Mitch assumed was a potato chip echoed through the phone.

"This is Mitch," he said with confident hesitation. "I gave you a ride last night."

The chewing stopped.

"Oh, hi!" she said, surprised, as though she didn't expect that he would ever call. "I didn't expect that you would ever call."

"Aw," he said audibly, "of course I'd call."

The two of them exchanged pleasantries for several minutes, asking about each other's day, feeling instantly and casually comfortable in the conversation with one another. But after those several minutes began to slow and it seemed like the conversation was about to stall, Mitch took a deep breath and stepped into the unknown.

"So," he said with an inhale, "would you like to have dinner sometime?" He paused as the silence replied to him. "Maybe tonight?" The silence persisted. Nervously, Mitch felt as though he needed to fill the audible void. "I mean," he said playfully, "I gave you a ride last night, so now you owe it to me to let me buy you dinner."

"Well," she replied optimistically, I work until nine tonight."

Mitch could feel the rejection approaching. He pursed his lips in disappointment.

"Is that too late to have dinner?" She asked.

Mitch could feel the rejection departing. He grinned ever-so-slightly in satisfaction. "Not at all," Mitch replied. "What time should I pick you up?"

"I'll meet you at your place at 9:30," she said. "You decide where we eat. I'm up for anything."