insanityWyatt was only loud and profane and not menacing. His arms hung limply at his sides. He stood near me, not two feet away, bellowing, but he remained otherwise motionless. He gave no overt indication that he might strike me or worse. While he stood beside me and shouted, I dug out of my file the records of his class. Though Wyatt did not pause to listen and I did not raise my voice to interrupt, while he raged I explained politely several times that on the official college transcript the college did not record pluses or minuses and that a C+ or a C- was entered simply as a solid C. I reminded Wyatt that I had explained this on both the first day of class and on the last. But Wyatt obviously had not come to listen to an explanation. He simply continued his tirade. He was so loud and so preoccupied with his grievance that it seemed to me unlikely that he had heard me. I spoke slowly in my normal tone of voice and made no special effort to be heard over him. I consoled myself with the knowledge that Wyatt saw my lips moving. Wyatt continued.
“You have no goddamned fucking idea what I have been through! I have been to fucking hell and back! To fucking hell and back! And now you are telling me I got a C? You will goddamned be dead first! You will be dead first! Do you hear me? You are going to pay for this! I am going to fucking blow you away! You are a dead man! Do you hear me? A dead man, you are a dead man! You have totally ruined and destroyed twenty-eight years of my fucking life! Twenty-eight years! You have fucked me over! My life is over and now your life is over!”
Wyatt shouted almost continuously, without pause, for what I think must have been about twenty minutes. Perhaps it was less and only seemed that long. It was hard to tell. I didn't check my watch. His protests, threats, and curses were audible to everyone in the faculty office area where perhaps twenty-five teachers occupied small institutional office cubicles like mine. A colleague in his cubicle at the far end of the room from mine called security, I learned later, and about two thirds of the way through Wyatt’s harangue a uniformed security guard I knew as Sam appeared at my cubicle.
“Sir! Sir!” Sam said several times, addressing Wyatt. "Sir!"
Wyatt stopped shouting, finally, and turned his head to look at the person who had interrupted him. Wyatt stared at the intruder. There was a moment of silence—stunning in its intensity—as Wyatt and I assessed this new development in our situation. The security guard waited until he was sure he had Wyatt’s attention. Then, calmly and politely, in a normal tone of voice, as if he were stating the simplest and most obvious matter of fact, Sam spoke to Wyatt.
“Sir,” he said evenly, “if you do not lower your voice I will have to escort you from the building.”
There was another pregnant silence of several seconds as Wyatt assimilated this new information. He surveyed the guard who stood beside him. I watched, expectantly, as Wyatt looked him up and down from head to toe. Wyatt appeared to be measuring him. Perhaps he was looking for sign of a gun or a truncheon, I don't know. I don't remember seeing either, but I was looking at Wyatt and not at Sam. The guard, a former Omaha city policeman, appeared to me at least ten years older, several inches shorter, and quite a bit smaller than Wyatt, who looked by comparison youthful, strong, athletic, and fit. I watched this silent mini-psychodrama take place before my eyes. It was an exciting moment, a kind of showdown.
“Who in the hell are you?” Wyatt asked finally, his voice dripping with contempt. It was a declaration, not a real question. Wyatt did not even pause for an answer. Like an umpire he jerked his thumb back over his shoulder towards the open office door.
“Get the fuck out of here, Jack!” he commanded.
The guard’s name was not Jack. Wyatt’s tone was peremptory. It contained not a trace of intimidation, fear, or respect. Without a sound, Sam the security guard spun on his heels and hurriedly strode away.
Hmm, I thought, now I could be in some deep shit.
............................................
INSANITY to be continued
“You have no goddamned fucking idea what I have been through! I have been to fucking hell and back! To fucking hell and back! And now you are telling me I got a C? You will goddamned be dead first! You will be dead first! Do you hear me? You are going to pay for this! I am going to fucking blow you away! You are a dead man! Do you hear me? A dead man, you are a dead man! You have totally ruined and destroyed twenty-eight years of my fucking life! Twenty-eight years! You have fucked me over! My life is over and now your life is over!”
Wyatt shouted almost continuously, without pause, for what I think must have been about twenty minutes. Perhaps it was less and only seemed that long. It was hard to tell. I didn't check my watch. His protests, threats, and curses were audible to everyone in the faculty office area where perhaps twenty-five teachers occupied small institutional office cubicles like mine. A colleague in his cubicle at the far end of the room from mine called security, I learned later, and about two thirds of the way through Wyatt’s harangue a uniformed security guard I knew as Sam appeared at my cubicle.
“Sir! Sir!” Sam said several times, addressing Wyatt. "Sir!"
Wyatt stopped shouting, finally, and turned his head to look at the person who had interrupted him. Wyatt stared at the intruder. There was a moment of silence—stunning in its intensity—as Wyatt and I assessed this new development in our situation. The security guard waited until he was sure he had Wyatt’s attention. Then, calmly and politely, in a normal tone of voice, as if he were stating the simplest and most obvious matter of fact, Sam spoke to Wyatt.
“Sir,” he said evenly, “if you do not lower your voice I will have to escort you from the building.”
There was another pregnant silence of several seconds as Wyatt assimilated this new information. He surveyed the guard who stood beside him. I watched, expectantly, as Wyatt looked him up and down from head to toe. Wyatt appeared to be measuring him. Perhaps he was looking for sign of a gun or a truncheon, I don't know. I don't remember seeing either, but I was looking at Wyatt and not at Sam. The guard, a former Omaha city policeman, appeared to me at least ten years older, several inches shorter, and quite a bit smaller than Wyatt, who looked by comparison youthful, strong, athletic, and fit. I watched this silent mini-psychodrama take place before my eyes. It was an exciting moment, a kind of showdown.
“Who in the hell are you?” Wyatt asked finally, his voice dripping with contempt. It was a declaration, not a real question. Wyatt did not even pause for an answer. Like an umpire he jerked his thumb back over his shoulder towards the open office door.
“Get the fuck out of here, Jack!” he commanded.
The guard’s name was not Jack. Wyatt’s tone was peremptory. It contained not a trace of intimidation, fear, or respect. Without a sound, Sam the security guard spun on his heels and hurriedly strode away.
Hmm, I thought, now I could be in some deep shit.
............................................
INSANITY to be continued
