so tame, so familiar. I mean our family tree goes right back to the Greeks and the Romans, but there haven’t really been any Africans in our cultural woodpile. I mean compare Hitler with Idi Amin: the civilized barbarian and the barbaric barbarian, Hitler worshipping Wotan, Idi praying to our Dark Goddess here. You should bring this goddess to the cocktail party tonight. Maybe she’d elicit a refreshing strain of barbaric savagery from our colleagues.”
There was a silent pause.
“So,” said Warren, “we have a little problem with Garth Timmins, don’t we?”
“No problem that I can see,” said Mel, rallying his full reserve of inner strength.
“Between you and me, Mel, Timmins is a problem child. I wish he’d stay in the School of Business Administration where he belongs. But he’s ours for his general education requirements in the humanities, and we’ve got to deal with him. He’s pretty upset about his interview with you.”
“And I’m pretty upset about his interview with me.”
“I don’t doubt that in the least. He’s an annoying guy. I had to put up with him in my class last semester.”
“We ought to kick him out of the university. I mean the way he came on to me was unforgivable. I couldn’t care less about his sex life. I told him that. He uses his deviation as an excuse for being a goof-off. And you can’t imagine how arrogant he is.”
“I’ve checked his record,” said Warren in a conciliatory tone. “He had a B-minus average. You aren’t thinking of flunking him or anything like that, are you? This is a delicate matter. First of all, there’s Timmins’ charge of discrimination, and you know what that means nowadays. It can be dynamite. How’d you like to have all the gays in West Hollywood picketing the English Department? And then there’s Timmins senior. I happen to know there’s bad blood between father and son—over the gay business, you know—but senior, on the other hand, is very proud of Garth’s position as cheerleader, and isn’t he president of his frat? Anyway, there’s big money involved. Mr. Timmins has hinted to Dean Amore that he’s ready to make a substantial contribution toward the new science complex. We wouldn’t want to be parties to losing that grub stake, would we?”
“Well, so much for Garth Timmins” said Mel. “I need to talk to you about my schedule. Damn it, Warren, you’ve got me down for another section of composition. Look, I’m a senior person, not a lousy assistant professor or graduate teaching fellow. I asked to teach the seminar in Restoration drama.”
“Mel, as far as I’m concerned, I’d like to give every faculty member the classes that he or she wants. But you know that Dean Amore has been looking us over very carefully. To tell you the truth, the last time you taught the Restoration seminar, you had only three students, and that’s just bad economics from the standpoint of manpower invested.”
“My god, Warren, you sound like that Donald Trump—or like Jack Welch. We’re not a real estate empire. We don’t manufacture jet engines. We’re humanists. Teachers. Literary scholars. Of course, Amore probably thinks he’s the Jack Welch of higher education.”
“Lester is a tough manager, but maybe that’s what this university has needed. Maybe we should stop indulging our hobbies.”
“Now that’s a shitty thing to say. That’s just plain rotten. So Restoration literature is just a little hobby, huh? Not worth the time of serious thinkers. What about your field? Is that just an unnecessary hobby, too? I haven’t seen Beowulf on ‘Masterpiece Theater’ yet.” Mel was red-faced, and spit bubbles had formed at the corners of his mouth.
“Calm down. Calm down. Here, have a peppermint candy. I’ll talk to Dean Amore. Don’t get excited until we see what the administration is willing to do.”
“Fuck the administration. And fuck you, too,” shouted Mel. Grasping the African goddess, he shouted grimly, “I hate peppermint.”
From: [email protected]
Dec. 9, 2000. Well, the fat’s in the fire. The Supreme Court in its infinite wisdom has stopped the hand recounts of the Florida ballots.
I’m about to have a conference with my colleague Mel Druse—who, by the way, is a Bush supporter. The jerk, he just had a big set-to with one of our students, who happens to be the son of a major donor to the university and who happens also to be gay. Mel gets as furious as Donald Duck in the old cartoons, and he has the judgment and subtlety of a pit bull. If I can get through that discussion without Mel having a fit, then I have to tell him that he’s scheduled for a section of advanced composition next semester. May the good Lord protect me from the wrath of a literary gent demeaned.
I’ll see you at the big meeting in a couple of weeks. The drinks will be on me.
From: [email protected]
I’ve run across Mel Druse here and there at meetings. He always seems very intense, humorless. He can’t have a sense of humor, or he’d laugh at Bush rather than support him. About a month ago, Bush stumbled into a characterization of himself. You remember he said, “They misunderestimate me.”
From my point of view, anyone who has anything good to say about that guy misunderestimates him.
Poor Mel, being faced with the horror of teaching advanced composition. I remember last year at the convention, he read a paper on Vanbrugh. Is he the only person in the world who’s now interested in Vanbrugh? Yeh, I think Mel Druse must be one of your many problems
See you soon.
3. Falafel; or, The Education of Bobby Druse
Hearing her voice in the hall, Professor Alexander (“Alex”) Hamilton (“Ham”), said, “Here she comes, i’ faith, full sail, with her fan spread and her streamers out, and her husband for a tender; ha, no, I cry for mercy.”
Her topgallant billowing, Professor Peggy O’Neil sailed into the room, gave a general “Hi, everyone!” and continued the monologue that had preceded her. “I thought my last book would never get out. I’ll never again submit anything to Yale. You can’t imagine how klutzy they are. I mean that editor is a real nitpicker. But, thank God, I have the first bound copy now. I brought it with me. Here it is. The long-awaited book.” And on the coffee table she triumphantly placed A Pound of Mixed Nuts: Insanity and Modern Poetry. “What a hassle to get here. Alvin was late getting home from the lab. A student called me, and I just couldn’t get rid of him. He talked on and on. I’m starved. Is there anything to eat? Did all of you see the article about Stanley Fish in Newsweek? Alvin and I don’t subscribe to Newsweek, but a student brought it to me. Fish is a real fraud, you know. All this stuff about reader response. I bet he couldn’t even pass our doctoral exams. I sometimes wonder if he’s read Shakespeare. Speaking of Shakespeare, who’s going to teach the undergraduate survey next semester? Is Warren here? I’d like to talk with him about the undergraduate courses. Where’s Warren? Alvin, get me a drink. Is there anything to eat? I’m starved.”
Mel and Bobby entered the room. Catching sight of them, Professor Peggy O’Neil, from her central position, greeted them: “Oh, you. Hi. Mel, have you been sick? You look terrible.”
“I hope Warren comes tonight. We simply must talk to him about the undergraduate program. Those people don’t know as much as I did when I got out of high school. The other
