And so already on the very first day I'd encountered the odd contradiction, between the solemnly abstracted Brodeur of the classroom and the Brodeur of notoriety; between the hapless obviousness by that big hole in his pants—like the plumber's ass-crack, like the festive toilet-paper banner waving out of the back of a woman's mis-tucked pantyhose—and the vandal's dark glasses and duster he'd worn at the reading, items one could almost think he had purposely, childishly picked to fulfill others' worst expectations.