The Other Ten Percent
"Hurry, hurry, Indy! Your class has started already!" Marcus Broody pushed the beat up, rugged adventurer into the Archeology Wing of Yale University.
"Already started? No sub? Stupid plane!"
He rushed down the hallway, skidded around a couple of corners, and burst through the door of his classroom, out of breath, gasping. As he slowly rose from his bent position, he noticed that all his very properly dressed students were staring at him in the strangest way. And the closest ones were a little blurry.
"Where are my glasses?" The professor muttered to himself; the pressing concern of his vision occupied his attention, delaying his comprehension of the stares turned on him. He started patting his pockets, when he noticed something strange.
The itchy, annoying feel of a starched cotton suit wasn't there. Instead, a soft and comfortable, yet worn and rugged fabric touched his groping fingers.
"Oh shit." It was murmured, but the front row students still heard and recoiled, amazed at his unusual foul language.
The professor of archeology looked toward one of his favorite students, an intellectual young man.
"Michael, am I wearing a hat?"
"Umm… yes sir."
"And I'm not wearing a suit, am I?"
"Uh, no sir." The poor man replied, shaking his head, bewildered.
"Jesus Chris-" Indiana Jones never finished his curse, as a slap came from beside him, accompanying a gruff voice.
"For blasphemy, Junior," reprimanded the voice. Usually collected Professor Jones turned slowly on his heel to face the owner of the hand and voice. Then it continued: "Marcus sent me after you, but I'm not as young as I once was. He said to tell you he meant to go change and that he would have me supervise. He didn't mean you had to teach. And, uh, you students seem to be, uh, a little, erm, disconcerted by your sudden and unusual appearance. Perhaps you ought to start talking."
Not even bothering to address his father, the professor turned toward his students and addressed the lot of them for the first time. "Well, class, you'll remember me saying that ninety percent of archeology is done in the library. I count myself among the lucky few who do the other ten percent. This is my father, Prof. Henry Jones, and he will speak to you for a few moments while I, uh, collect myself." And he walked studiously toward the attached office without making eye contact with anyone.
Inside the office, poor Prof. Jones looked at himself in the mirror, to find a man dirty even by his standards staring back at him. They had only just returned from the Middle East by a direct, private flight, courtesy of Broody. He hadn't realized quite how dirty one got. Everything looked much cleaner with the dusty road, sweaty horses, and crowded squares. Now, in a spotless university office, he saw just how much dust and dirt was on him. And the smell… well, it couldn't be horse manure, which was the chief cause on an expedition, because there were no horses here. It must be him. All together, a rather difficult image to project oneself into a position of authority with. With a final, college honed eye, instead of an adventurer's, he noticed that the first three buttons of his shirt were undone, and a gun holster was still strapped to his waist. With a gun in it.
'Well,' he thought, 'the shirt covers the girls' stares and the gun the boys'. Broody will kill me!'
He resolved not to run away, as he had the last time the students were pressuring him to speak to them. That had led him to Donovan and the whole goose chase in the first place. Now, he just had to button up his shirt, tuck the gun away, like for customs, and tell them everything. 'Of course,' he thought, 'this will be a complete disaster. I am so dumb!'
There was nothing else to do. He buttoned he shirt, hid the gun, and squared his shoulders. He had Broody and Dad to help. He was Dr. Indiana Jones; he had drunk from the Cup of Christ; he had faced death by Brotherhood, Nazi, Austrian, God, temptation. He could face a classroom of refined, American college students. He could. Probably.
He stood in front of the office door, listening to what his father had been saying. He was rambling on about Nazis and how horrible they are. Not that Prof. Jones disagreed; he thought Nazis were the scum of the earth. But it wasn't exactly pertinent to an archeology class. Not only that, but his father was really very skilled in archeology and teaching; it was surprising to see him using this opportunity on something other than the appropriate subject.
"Ahem!" He interrupted his father. "I do believe that Nazis are the scum of the earth and that this generation should be taught anti-Nazi beliefs, but this is an archeology class, Prof. Jones, and you are knowledgeable on the subject of archeology."
"Well, they don't have an anti-Nazi cause here yet – they should, but they don't. So I figured I'd take a couple of unclaimed minutes to inform the younger generation of the atrocities already being committed by these idiots."
"Not idiots, Dad. Elsa was a Nazi. Donovan was a Nazi. Not idiots. Just evil bastards." The students recoiled at the language, but Dr. Jones Jr. didn't care. It was true.
"Now, students, you may be a little disconcerted at my appearance." Henry Jones laughed. "You will remember," he continued, "that I told you that ninety percent of archeology takes place in the library, and that anyone looking for high-adrenaline adventure seeking out buried treasure could leave. Well, it doesn't take a math major to figure that the ninety percent figure leaves ten percent of archeology done in the field. Well, nine percent of this is done in boring brush and pick type digs. Which leaves one percent. One percent of adventure, following clues to ancient treasures. And I happen to have a complete monopoly on the American high-flown adventure-archeology industry. So the post's not open. Sorry.
"And quite honestly, those cotton suits we professors are supposed to wear are not good gear for adventuring. They burn, soak through, shrink, are uncomfortable, limit movement, and generally hinder. Leather does not. Hence the attire. I literally landed at the air port in New York City from Palestine about one class period ago. Please excuse my lateness.
"Now, can we get all the excitement, suspense and rumors out of the way before we begin class?" Most of the hands in the room shot up.
"Who are Elsa and Donovan?"
"Ah. Dr. Elsa Schneider, an Austrian Nazi. She was working with Dr. Jones and I on the recent, ah, mission we were sent on, in disguise. She was working for Hitler the whole time. And Walter Donovan… sadly, and American business man, turned traitor, working for the Nazis. The very lowest scum of the earth. Michael?"
"What were you looking for?"
"Excellent question. The Holy Grail." At the incredulous looks of the students, he continued. "The Cup Christ drank from at the Last Supper? It's in a temple in Palestine. I have drunken from it. So has Dr. Jones. In fact, it saved his life. Where is it? Still there, of course. It can never leave .Elsa Schneider died trying to remove it. Walter Donovan died due to his poor choices. Emily?"
"Are you related to Dr. Jones?"
"He's my father. Charlie?"
"Why do you have a gun and a whip on you? Isn't that illegal, on school grounds?"
"Yes, to your second question. I'm surprised Marcus Broody hasn't already puffed into the room to yell at me. As for the first, well, you don't really survive Nazi tanks without some sort of firearm. And the whip is my signature. I learned to use one when I was fourteen. This one, actually. Jess-" He was cut off by Marcus Broody, ruddy in the face, gasping for breath, and very annoyed.
"Indy! I meant go change and get yourself together! Not go barreling in here with your weapons and costume and everything!"
"I know, Marcus! Calm down!"
"Gun." Broody held out his hand for the weapon. Indy handed it over.
"Don't shoot yourself," he laughed.
"Hell no!" Indy put his hand protectively over the handle. "No one touches this but me!"
"Give it here, Jones."
"No! I'll leave and put it away, and no offence, Marcus, but there is no way I am going to trust you with my whip. None what so ever."
"Fine, then. I trust your father can run a class. Go!"
"Alright, alright, don't be pushy!" Tipping his hat to the class, Professor Henry "Indiana" Jones left his classroom. He would never keep that particular period's students focused on the books again.