Okay, it’s not quite Roosevelt charging up San Juan Hill, but I’m taking a stand.
“Get the spot first,” he says. “Once you’re a tenured full professor, challenge every convention of academia. But this whole laid-back thing...”
I’m not laid-back. I’m anything but laid-back. I’m stubborn. There’s a difference.
“Here’s some Latin for you,” I say. “Ego facturus est via mea.”
Anshu sighs. “Now I suppose you’re going to tell me what that means.”
“It means, I’m going to do it my way.”
“Of course you are.” He flips a hand. “Of course you are.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me, Professor, I need a haircut.”
“That was on my list, too. Your hair’s too long. You look—”
“Like one of the students, I know.”
And then my phone rings.
—
Not five minutes later, I’m entering the office of one of the associate deans, Martin Comstock, who also happens to be the chair of the tenure committee. Silver-haired and dapper, going all-in on the stereotype with the bright red bow tie.
Actually, he wears bow ties so people will ask him about them, and he canreluctantlyreveal that he clerked for U.S. Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens, who wore bow ties, and then served as an aide to U.S. SenatorPaul Simon, who also wore them.Oh, this? Well, I suppose it’s kind of an homage, if you must know...
Our dean is retiring next year, and everyone says Comstock will take the reins. Not everybody’s happy about that. I might be one of those people. He’s a politician, not an academic. A blue blood, not a scholar. He’s everything I hate about academia.
Other than that, I’m sure he’s a great guy.
“Ah, Simon, good,” he says when I knock on his opened door.
“Hi, Dean.” He likes being called by his title. He pretends he doesn’t, but he does.
He manages a quick, disapproving appraisal of my outfit. For the record, my button-down shirt is tucked in, and my jeans are clean and not torn. I look just fine.
“Thanks for stopping by,” he says. “I’ll get to the point.”
His office, all leather and walnut, is a monument to his greatness, with all his diplomas and awards, photographs with presidents and high-court judges. He sits in a high-back leather chair behind a magnificent desk.
“Simon, you applied for full professor,” he says, his hands forming a temple in his lap.
“I did, yes.”
“Yes, good stuff, good for you,” he says. “You’ve done fine work, I’ll say it to anyone.”
It’s time for thebut...
“Now, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Simon.”
In the history of mankind, nobody has followedI don’t want you to take this the wrong waywith something that could be taken any other way.
“I wonder,” he begins. “Well, here. You may be aware that Reid Southern has applied for the position as well.”
I sure am! I’m also aware that his daddy has given more than five million dollars to the school over the last decade, which just happened to coincide with when his son started working here.
“Yeah,” I say.