Mr. Jenkins

Half-way through my final year at McMaster University and blood is pumping to my cheeks. The biology program chair announced Mr.Robertson, my plant pathology professor, will not finish teaching the semester. His replacement is Mr. Jenkins, a certified GPA killer. As a student who prides himself on a 4.0 GPA, this is tragic news. I mean no socializing, clubbing, drinking, snapping, or fratting. School is life, and now some heavy handed, overeducated book mongrel is going to turn that four into a three. 

Mr. Jenkins is pasty. Translucent, like rice paper. He slicks his thick wavy salt and pepper brown hair back like a 50s greaser. He grows an I'm too lazy to shave five o'clock shadow. His eyebrows are filled, but not unruly. He wears golden yellow tweed jackets to every class, with fitted clean white dress shirts, charcoal pants, leather loafers, and no tie. His dark sunken eyes have never known sleep. His velvet voice is suited for a viral ASMR video, not an early morning lecture. Each class is clockwork. He opens with a wordy monologue about relevant research, streams a Powerpoint presentation he designed in 2003, and finishes with a brief question period. I hung on his every monotone word through five eternities, sorry, lectures, and studied six hours a night for his course. I'm the only student to ace the final exam. Not shocking. What is shocking is the email I received from Jenkins inviting me to dinner to discuss my paper on the rise of hybrid fungi. Dinner with a professor? If I have to wine and dine the sonofabitch to not get a sixty-nine, I will.

I arrive at Jenkins' residence fifteen minutes before our scheduled seven o'clock dinner. His house towers over me. It's made of golden brick. He must've gone to Lowe's with his tweed jacket asking for a colour match. Burgundy interlock leads to a double car garage with firetruck red doors. Emerald hydrangeas edge his elevated cement veranda. He swings the door open as if he's been standing there since sunrise for my arrival. I scan him head to toe. Does he own different clothes? His molasses voice pours into my ear. I'm wearing the most formal navy blue hoody and khaki pants I could find paired with a set of brown sneakers I cleaned this afternoon with Tide and hot water. Jenkins rambles about his admiration for my paper and complements my pinpoint writing skills, while I count the rings around his eyes.

A thick gothic table stands in the dining room. Plain white plates, burgundy napkins, and sharp silverware rest on top. 

"Are you a drinking man Stewart?" Jenkins inquires. 

"No sir, water will be fine." 

Jenkins slips a bottle from his wine wall. A vintage I presume. 

"I thought this Cabernet Sauvignon would pair well with our fillets this evening. It's savoury with a bitter end," Jenkins describes. 

"Sure, I'll have a glass," I mutter. He grabs a corkscrew and stabs it through the top of the bottleneck, twisting. 

"You know Stewart, it's been a long time since I've seen a student shine as bright as you. I know I hold a certain...reputation around McMaster as being an unfair professor, but I simply expect the best, from everything, and you are the most promising undergrad I've seen walking campus grounds." 

He grunts on his last words while the cork makes a squeaky thud escaping the bottle. Jenkins pours blood red wine into smooth glasses, which he cradles by the stem. He hands me one and raises his glass in cliche fashion. 

"To plants, and all they do for us." We clink and drink. I fight the urge to pucker. Jenkins' tongue performs a wine tango  behind the curtain of his peeling lips. 

"Ahh, exquisite," he exhales while lowering his glass.  

Jenkins slips on a white cloth apron to protect the one outfit he owns. He slides a tray from the oven holding two sizzling fillets. Burnt rosemary and garlic fills the air.