Applying the Lesson

The idea of the betrayed professor was inspired by Wendylicker's great series Making an Honest Woman. This story takes a different point of view.

If you hated my previous stories, you will undoubtedly hate this one, and comment accordingly. Let 'er rip. If you enjoyed my previous stories, I hope you enjoy this one.

Thanks to psiberzerker for his valuable comments and suggested changes.

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Some university classes are popular because they're interesting, some because they're easy. Others are in demand because of the professor. If the latter, it might be that he's a good teacher. Or, if there's a disproportionate number of women, it might be because he's a good-looking hunk.

The most in-demand class in my MBA Analytics program was The Individual in Analytics, a seminar which focused on the significance of the singular actor in an array of billions of other actors. Admission to the course was restricted to the top twelve students in the program. There were generally more women in the class than men, even though there were slightly more men doing the MBA. I don't know whether this was because the women were better students, or whether they pressed harder to get in.

Professor Thomas Anderson could best be described as a "dreamboat." Tall, lean, with dark hair and icy blue eyes, his detached demeanor set many hearts fluttering. I was there because I was interested in the subject; at least that's what I told myself. It was rumoured that in his first year on faculty a student tried to exchange a blowjob for a higher grade. She was expelled the next day. The women in Thomas Anderson's class might look at him with longing, but none of us were foolish enough to risk their degree by trying anything. He was fiercely loyal to his wife, a beautiful and successful investment analyst.

Professor Anderson wrote his own textbook, The Soul of The Data Point, and was reportedly preparing a popularized version, to be released by one the major publishing houses. The University encouraged this; any increase in his stature would help the school attract more applicants.

We were in the third month of the semester, covering moral obligation to the data. We had started off with the science-fiction writer Isaac Asimov, whose Foundation novels posited that when the numbers got big enough, all human behavior was predictable through the science of "psychohistory." We discussed privacy in the internet era. We argued about the individual. Every epidemic is made up of single sick people. Every retail sale is a human being giving up something of value (usually money) in exchange for something they want. What motivated them to do that? The design of the web page? The character, the looks of the cashier? My friend Rita picked up on the latter.

"A person who goes into a grocery store wants to buy food. They'll have filled their basket by the time they go to the cashier. Her looks can't make a big difference."

Another student responded with a handsome smile. "Sexist! Why do you assume that the cashier is a her?" Maybe it's a dreamy-looking guy?" Mike himself was dreamy looking, tall, athletic, with curly blond hair. I had been thinking of getting to know him better, but his question definitely put him in the realm of possibly-gay. I didn't want to embarrass myself.

"What about ancillary shopping? You know, the candies, gum and magazines by the cash. I think the cashier's looks would affect those purchases." I wasn't one to speak up much, and furtively glanced around the table for support for my assertion. Professor Anderson's eyes were fixed on the notebook in front of him, which meant he was ready to comment. We all remained silent.

"Ms. Chiswick, is it only his or her looks that would affect the purchases? What about character?"

I took a deep breath. "A shopper generally wouldn't know the character of the cashier until he started interacting with her. That usually takes place when all the groceries or whatever have been unloaded and the shopper has moved past the display of ancillary products. But the shopper would know the attractiveness of the cashier the moment he or she got into line. A beautiful, bitchy cashier would do better than a homely pleasant one, presuming the shoppers weren't experienced at the store, and didn't know the staff. The principle might be more applicable at Home Depot than Kroger's, because most people don't shop at the hardware store as frequently."

"Good one, Dale." Mike elbowed me lightly, grinning.

"Well, Ms. Chiswick, I don't think you're bitchy, but you're definitely beautiful. Does that make you more successful in your work as..." the professor paused to look at his notes "...as a hotel Front Desk Manager?"

I was a few years older than most of the students in the class, having taken a part time load so that I could earn enough to support myself. I had started off as a clerk in a hotel about twenty miles north of campus, gradually working my way up to Evening Front Desk Manager. The hotel was part of a small regional chain, and there was little chance for further advancement. Hence the MBA program. Hence my face turning bright red when Professor Anderson said I was "definitely beautiful." I was used to hotel guests commenting on my appearance; I hadn't expected it in class. It took me a moment to compose my thoughts.

"In my line of work, no. Most of the clients have already pre-booked on Expedia or some other booking site. The number of people coming to my line, as opposed to another line has no effect on the volume of business for the hotel that evening. My beauty, as you describe it, causes me to have more work rather than causing my employer to have more business."

Professor Anderson clasped his hands in front of him before responding. "Does dealing with a beautiful person make the client enjoy the check-in experience more?" He looked around the room as most of the students nodded. "Does that mean they're more likely to be return customers, even if they don't know what it is they enjoyed?" More nods. He turned towards me. "I'm not implying that you're doing anything improper, or that the hotel is using you for your sex appeal. But when we're looking at aggregations of millions of data points, we have to remember that there are human variables that we must account for, such as beautiful women."

It would have been nice if he at least would have had a smile on his face during such a declaration. His deadpan expression, his monotone voice irritated me. Often when a hotel guest commented on my looks it came with an invitation to visit his room; I always followed the hotel's protocols in responding. Professor Anderson's detached compliment made me feel like an object, a part of the décor. I stared at his eyes. "So to what do we attribute the popularity of this seminar among females? Is it your inspired teaching methods, the course content, the convenience of the schedule, or... is it because you're a good-looking hunk?"

Mike exploded in laughter. The other women in the room looked down at the table to hide their embarrassment. Professor Anderson finally smiled.

"Touché." He paused, looked at Mike and said "I hope it's because I'm such a dreamy-looking guy."

Mike laughed again. Okay, he was probably gay. Was the Professor bi? Or were they both just pulling our legs?

The Professor quickly wiped his smile away. "On a more serious note though, umm... we have two more classes left this semester. At our next meeting, we'll review everything we discussed about achieving a technical understanding of individual data points. At our last get-together we'll go over what we understand about the souls of the data, and how these relate to human souls. In the meantime, put some ideas together for your seminar projects. If it's related to something that's part of your life, all the better. When you're ready, go to my appointment page and book a time. We'll discuss what you want to do, and then you'll move forward with it. Only one meeting per student, so be prepared." Not only was Thomas Anderson stingy with his smiles, he was also stingy with his time.

My project choice was obvious: data points at a hotel front desk. I know what happens there, I know what affects customers, what affects staff. If the hotel were sentient, I would be part of its mind. I'm comfortable at the hotel front desk. I'm generally a shy person, not wanting to draw attention to myself, especially amongst people I don't know well. At the front desk though, I'm in my groove. I've said the same words to so many people so many times that the presence of a stranger doesn't bother me. My routine puts me at ease. Sometimes there are complications, sometimes there are situations that go beyond the norm, but never beyond the familiar. I've seen it all, I've dealt with it all.

It took me about a week to think through how I wanted to organize my project: what I wanted it to say, what I wanted to prove. I had to work out how I could deal with the beauty/bitchy question without denigrating any of my fellow staff. I booked the four p.m. Monday afternoon slot with Professor Anderson.

His office was in a quiet corridor of the school's main business building. I was standing outside his door at three fifty-five, not wanting to be late. At three fifty-nine he opened it and ushered me in. I started pulling the door closed.

"No. Leave it open."

"Umm, I may say some things about confidential hotel business. I don't want my voice carrying."

"Do you remember what Vice President Pence said about not being alone in a room with a woman other than his wife?"

I nodded.

"I don't want to get into a discussion of any other policy of the current administration, but I do agree with the Vice President on that one. The door stays open. Pull your chair over to my side of the desk, and we'll talk softly. No one else will hear you, but we'll be in full view of any passerbys. Is that okay?"

"I guess so." I rolled the chair from one side of the desk to the other, sat down and froze.

"Okay, Ms. Chiswick, tell me about your project."

I stared at the photo on his desk.

" Ms. Chiswick?"

I dragged my attention back to my proposed research. We discussed how to isolate variables, potential biases, timelines... After twenty minutes or so I was pretty set up on how to tackle the project. I pointed at the picture. "You have a lovely family. What are their names?"

Professor Anderson broke out in the biggest smile I'd ever seen on him. "The little boy, nine years old, is Sasha. The little princess is Tanya, twelve. The big princess is Julia, my wife. I'm not going to tell you how old she is."

"Lovely. Both children play violin?"

"Actually no, Sasha plays viola. It's hard to see the difference between their instruments in the photo."

"Do you play an instrument?"

He shook his head. "My wife helped support us by giving music lessons when I was completing my doctorate."

I stood up. "You must be very proud."

"I am. They're in a recital on Thursday; they each have important solos."

"That's terrific." I pulled my chair back to the other side of the desk. I couldn't hold it in much longer. "Thank you for your time, Professor." I turned quickly and left. I didn't want him to see the dampness in my eyes.

On Tuesday I stood at my place at the front desk, awaiting their arrival. I was dealing with something new, unfamiliar, and had put the "position closed" sign on the granite counter a few minutes earlier to make sure I wouldn't be tied up with anyone else when they checked in. As soon as I spotted the couple entering the lobby I removed the sign and held up my phone. I pretended to be pressing the buttons on some app; I was actually taking pictures. As they approached the desk I put my phone down and started the sound recorder. I gave them my sincerest phoney smile. "Welcome back to the Balsam Fir." I usually welcomed them by name.

The hotel chain was named "Evergreen," and all the hotels had names like "Jack Pine," "White Cedar," or "Balsam Fir." It was supposed to project an image of environmental friendliness.

"Thank you. We booked a Business Meeting Special." He looked at me, expecting my usual response. I just kept smiling. "Mr. and Mrs. Farber," he continued. I looked at my computer, spotted his entry, and handed him two keys.

"Please remember that with the Business Meeting Special you have to check out no later than nine-fifteen, so we can prepare the room for the next guest. Failure to check out by that time cancels the Special and adds a fifty percent surcharge to the regular rate." It was a mandatory recitation. Our hotel had a discount rate for people who checked out early enough for the room to be used for a late-arriving guest. The discount is officially for business people who want to work late together without being disturbed. Unofficially everyone knew what it was popular for.

I wanted to record her voice. "I trust you'll have a productive evening, Mrs. Farber."

She winked at me. "Thank you dear." They departed for the elevator and I stopped the recording app.

I picked the phone and called Housekeeping. "Evidence cleanup for room 308. I'll call you when they check out." Occasionally the hotel would be threatened with a lawsuit, either by a guest or someone connected to him. These were often related to Business Meeting Specials. We had a different cleanup protocol when we felt there might be a problem. The desk manager would accompany the cleaning staff, photographing and documenting evidence such as used condoms, wet sheets, signs of violence or drugs. It wasn't court-admissible evidence but could be used as justification for a more serious investigation, or to raise doubt in a trial. I put the phone down and wiped my eyes.

They were out by nine o'clock, looking clean, fresh and happy. The score was two filled condoms, a wet sheet, two wet towels and a shower cap. I took the appropriate pictures, filled in all the forms and signed them.

What was this going to do to my seminar project? I had a moral obligation because of the data. At midnight I drove back to my apartment, but tossed and turned all night, thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Farber and the data I had collected on them. By the morning I had made up my mind. If she didn't show up on Thursday, I would just have to do it the next Tuesday. The Farbers had a schedule which they rarely deviated from, and I would not deviate from my obligations.

They did show up. I guess 'Mrs. Farber' had her priorities. I repeated my stunts with the sign and the phone, this time taking a video as they approached. Once again, I left the voice recorder on as they checked in. When it was time for me to hand them the keys, I lied. "We've implemented a new security protocol at the hotel. We're required to see ID for every key we hand out. Would you like to show me identification, Mrs. Farber?"

They looked at each other, a little stunned. "No, uh, we're not going anywhere. I don't need a key."

I repeated the mandatory check-out recitation and then added a bit. "I'm actually surprised to see you tonight, Mrs. Farber. I thought you'd be going to the recital."

She looked confused. Something was connecting in the back of her mind, but she didn't recognize it yet. Farber looked pissed. He wouldn't be recorded as a happy data point. "What are you talking about?"

I gave them my standard phoney smile. "Why, Sasha and Tanya of course."

"Who are Sasha and Tanya" he said, as 'Mrs. Farber' clutched the counter, her skin taking on an ashen pallor. "Honey, what's wrong? Let's go upstairs, so you can lie down."

She turned to me, lips trembling. "Who are you? What do you want from me?"

I pointed to the nameplate on my jacket. "Dale Chiswick. I—"

"What do you want: money? How much?" She dug franticly in her purse, pulling out a checkbook. "How much do you want? Is a thousand dollars enough? You have to stay silent. You can't tell him anything."

"I'm not asking you for money, Mrs. Anderson."

Farber looked at each of us, astonished.

She grabbed the pen off my counter and began to fill in a check. "I'm giving you five thousand dollars. Please, I beg you, don't destroy me. Don't tell him."

Farber grabbed her shoulders. "Julia, what's going on? What's the problem with a recital?"

She looked at her watch. "Oh my god, the time! I can still make it if I run." She pulled the check out and slid it over to me. " I left the payee blank. Fill in whatever name you want; yours, charity... Just don't tell him. Please!" She fled.

"Shit, she drove me here." Farber ran after her, but Julia Anderson was already gone.

I wiped the grin off my face as he returned to the check-in desk. "You've really fucked things up for me, you know." Definitely not a happy data point.

"There's usually an Uber within a few minutes of the hotel, or I can call you a taxi."

"I'm going to complain about you to management."

I reached over for a customer satisfaction report form. "Would you like one for Mrs. Farber as well?"

"Fuck yourself. That's no way to treat a good customer." He stomped out without turning in his key. The surcharge would show up on his next credit card statement.

On Monday at three in the afternoon I sat nervously outside Professor Anderson's office. It was before his scheduled hours and I didn't have an appointment, but I knew his routine. At three-ten he arrived, not even noticing me as he unlocked his door. I startled him as I followed him in.

"Ms. Chiswick? We don't have an appointment now."

I closed the door behind me. "I know, but this is important."

He reached for the doorknob; I blocked him.

"Ms. Chiswick, I've had students expelled for less."

"For most of the semester you've been focusing on morality and obligations regarding the data. This is one of those cases, and you're involved."

"You're the researcher. You're supposed to handle it, not ask someone else to solve it for you."

"The moral obligation with this data is to you." I stressed the last word and added "You're part of this whether or not you want to be." I grabbed the visitor chair, rolled it next to him, sat down and pulled out my phone. I showed him the Tuesday pictures and played the audio recording. I handed him an envelope with the evidence report and five-thousand-dollar check. I played the Thursday video. His face was still expressionless when it finished.

"I was so happy when she showed up at the recital. The kids were thrilled that she was there. I didn't tell them that she only came towards the end. I assumed she ended her strategy conference early because she loves us." He sniffled and then glared at me. "So what are you going to do with the five-thousand dollars you've extorted?"

I recoiled. "It's in the envelope I just gave you. I believe your lessons about morality."

The glare turned to sorrow. "I'm sorry." He began to cry.

I touched his back. "I'm sorry, too."

He leaned his arms and head on the desk as he sobbed. After a few minutes he raised them to reach for a tissue.

"I've been fearing this moment ever since I saw the photo of your family on your desk."

"How long has they been doing this?"

"Maybe four or five months. At my hotel, at least."

He pondered that for a moment. "Yes, that fits." He blew his nose, applied some hand sanitizer, then wiped his eyes again.

I took his hands in mine. "If there's anything I can do..."

He pulled them back and stood. "Yes, thank you, I'll be in touch if there is." He glanced at his watch, but it seemed more for effect than for knowing the time. "I must leave now. You have to leave too. Thank you for coming, Ms. Chiswick. I look forward to seeing your project."

I stood as well, and he ushered me out with his hand on my back. "Goodbye, Ms. Chiswick." He locked the door behind him and took off.

I got an email the next day stating that the last meeting of The Individual in Analytics seminar had been cancelled. Two weeks later I submitted my project. Four weeks after that I received my grade: D. I didn't know whether to be furious at or worried about Professor Anderson. I went to his office, hoping to be lucky and find him there. I was shocked to find it empty: no Professor, no books, not even a desk. Just some cans of paint waiting to be applied to the walls. I went to the department office.