To: English Language and Literature Faculty

From: Ian Sutherland, Chair

Please remember that the Western Campus WWWWC is hosting the monthly departmental literature review tomorrow. We will convene at 11 a.m. For those presenting, bring a summary of your article for the rest of us. Thanks.

To: Meghan Taft

From: Ian Sutherland, Chair

You’ll have coffee, right? And maybe those little pastries to go with?

To: Meghan Taft

From: Chester Borkh, WWWWC Coordinator (MAIN CAMPUS) 

Meghan, please print out copies of the attached summary for the literature review tomorrow. I’d hate to have to carry them all the way to your little outpost! You might want to review the summary before tomorrow; it has some concepts that might be a bit unfamiliar to you.

To: Meghan Taft

From: Cosma Kallas, Professor

Hey, we’re having a little dinner thing in a few Saturdays. Can you make it?

To: Meghan Taft

From: Mari Goranca, Professor 

You will have something to perk up the coffee at that dreadful literature review, yes?

To: Meghan Taft

From: Lars Bumbry, Assistant Coach

Hey Meghan, I meant to warn you, but I hear that I missed the boat. Sorry. BTW, what’s so wrong with ‘in today’s society’?

To: Meghan Taft

From: Graham Plasson, Professor

A little birdie told me that you clearly aren’t doing your squats. For shame. Maybe the hockies can give you some tips?

To: Meghan Taft

From: Elinor Summers, Egalliv Fellow

Anything you’d like to discuss?

To: Meghan Taft

From: ssskooovvhuuus@gmail.com

I’m sorry I didn’t warn you in advance, but I knew that your reaction would be priceless. You never disappoint me, Megs. See you soon.

The WWWWC was finally quiet. I was trying to finish up some administrative nonsense, so I appreciated the calm. The rest of the day had been…oh, who the hell cares? When one has displayed one’s ass to one’s boss, the rest of one’s day rather pales in comparison. All I wanted to do was go home and dose myself with Vitamin B, but my wish was for naught. I had study tables.

Study tables are the university’s way of staying ‘homework detention.’ Basically, coaches set up study tables so that their players live up to the student part of the student-athlete appellation. The players must come to a certain number of session per week, and tutors in various disciplines are often on hand to help the students out with their work. In addition to making sure that the athletes do some work, study tables are also really helpful for students who have missed class because of a game or meet; in those cases, study tables function as a mini-tutorial. Because I am the hockey team’s writing bitch, I am expected to be on-hand once a week to help the players out with any questions that they have about writing, grammar, or literature. Garrett helps out his teammates too, but I am the “authority.”

After I finished my patient, professional email to the student who wanted me to “fix the problems with the sentences and rewrite paragraphs 5-12” in his essay, I began to shut down my office for the day. I try to make sure the place is presentable…oh, who am I kidding? My office is usually a grand cacophony of papers and books and pens, but I am anal about shutting down my computer every night and locking up my flash drives. That night, I did my usual routine and gathered my bag. I made sure to have extra copies of my handouts for Kavalier and Clay and packed a dictionary and a handbook as well. Experience had taught me that I’d need all three before study tables were finished. For good measure, I threw a handful of pens in my bag too. I threw my wrap around my shoulders, turned off my light, and locked my door.

I gave the WWWWC a once over to make sure that the tables had been tidied and the chairs had been pushed in (my pet peeve) and then ambled over to the terrarium. I looked down fondly on its inhabitants: Floria, Orfeo, and Salome. The turtles were a gift to the Center from the assistant dean of Arts and Science, who is both an animal and opera lover. I love opera as well, so I bestowed names of characters from some wonderful, popular operas on my new little charges. The assistant dean loved the names. Aridadne thought I should have named them after the only important sister act in literature (the Brontes, naturally).

“Hello, lovelies,” I said. “Lettuce tasty today?”

The turtles looked at me and then contined their dinner. After making a note to buy them some treats before the weekend, I turned off the lights, closed and locked the door, and made my way to the hockey facility.

The night was crisp and starry. Sometimes Western Campus takes on a slightly ghostly quality at night, what with all the stone and woods and water. That night, though, its mood seemed mellow to me. The newness of the term was over; the frentic pace of its finish was not upon us yet. The moonlight glinted off the stone buildings, and students ambled along the paths ready to begin their evening with studying and end it with each other. All in all, the walk between the WWWWC and the hockey facility was by far the best part of my mess of a day.

Alas, my restorative walk was altogether too short. As I approached the building, I squared my shoulders and tossed my hair. False confidence, yes, but better than no condfidence at all. I entered the study room to a barrage of comments and questions.

“Meghan, would you please explain to me postmodern paradigms in The Crying of Lot 49?”

“Meghan, what’s the point of trying to be sophisticated and using semicolons if I can’t use them to join a bunch of sentences?

“Meghan, can you spell some stuff for me?”

“Meghan, what’s a nubian?”

“Meghan, you do know that Freddy’s pissed at you, right?”

Garrett threw the last question my way. I gave him a look and then proceeded to work my way through the other questions, the answers to which consisted of: “read your notes and handouts and then talk to me; semicolons do not give you free reign never to use a period; no; watch Chasing Amy on your next trip.”

After checking in with all of the players and getting them settled down to work, I went over to Garrett’s study area. He was sitting with a mound of work and some oranges next to him. He handed me some orange slices and, because he knew my spazziness so well, some napkins. I smiled in thanks and raised my eyebrow, indicating that he should talk.

“Freddy’s pissed,” Garrett said. “You should have told him.”

“Freddy’s being unreasonable, and you know it,” I replied. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Come on. You totally held out on him. You know his idol, but you never let on.”

“Garrett, I BARELY KNEW his idol when I was your age. It was a long time ago.”

“I don’t know. It might have been a long time ago, but you two seemed pretty close.”

“I haven’t seen him in years. We’re not close.”

“I don’t know, Meghan,” Garrett said thoughtfully. “I think that you two know each other pretty well. He wasn’t at all suprised when your naked bum was on display for the whole WWWWC. Nobody who knows you was.”

The entire team stopped dead and looked at me. Before I could recover my senses and bark at them to get back to work, Duncan raised his hand.

“Meghan? Can we make pants optional in class just like in the Centre? Please?”

I had barely parted my lips in response when a voice piped up, “That sounds like fun, Meghan.”

I whipped around, upsetting Garrett’s table and dumping his books, homework, organges, and water to the ground. HE looked at me and burst out laughing. Between his guffaws, he choked out two words.

“Hello, Meghan.”

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: oh, SHIT.

While I was letting it all hang out for the whole of the WWWWC, Hal was going about his afternoon. Hal’s afternoons had taken on a routine quality that they’d never had before The Student’s arrival. Since his very public cuckolding (everything at a university is public, especially the private), Hal tried to comport himself with the quiet dignity befitting a man of his stature. He kept office hours and deadlines, he delivered classes of the same stellar quality, he spoke his opinion at department meeting, he kept up his social life. All of these things were easy for Hal to do, for it gave him comfort to behave as he thought he should. To behave like a grown up. To behave in a way that reflected his personal dignity.

Hal’s behavior wasn’t merely for show, either. At home, he more or less kept to the same standards as always: neat scotch in a proper glass, dishes in the dishwasher promptly, study slightly cluttered but never messy. It was if nothing had ever changed for Hal, like The Student had never existed.

But he had.

The worst of it, Hal thought, was not missing Felicity. How could he miss her? They were still on three committees together. She was over at least once week to pick up something or to return something else. Oh, Felicity was decent about things; she didn’t throw The Student in his face or give tortured, giddy confessions to her friends over late night glasses of Beaune. She handled the situation with dignity and grace (excepting the whole being caught in her marital bed with a mere child, of course). In this regard, she and Hal were perfectly matched: cool, calm, collected. Adult. Enviable.

So, of course Felicity was fine if Hal didn’t think about The Student. And so he didn’t; at least, he thought about the student as little as he could. But what else could he think about? The days were filled with his academic duties, but the nights were another matter entirely. Alone in the house, alone with his thoughts, alone in his life, Hal began to search. He turned to friends and tomes and texts and titillation. But quite frankly, none of those distractions did anything for him. He needed more—he needed something to take him out of his own head. After a little while of searching, he found what he needed on a little stone bench in a small grove of trees on Western Campus.

The little package was perfect: small, full, and pure. It was full of an elixir for Hal, a substance that he consumed greedily. Afterward, he yearned for more. No, he didn’t yearn for more. He needed more. But searched as he might, he had no idea how to find more. And when he realized this, he felt a bit desperate. He needed to guard this item carefully, greedily, even though it wasn’t his to keep. But he needed it, and he had no control over that need.

And that overwhelming, unquenchable need? It completely shook Hal. He’d not ever encountered a need like this one. He’d wanted things, certainly, but Hal’s wants were never without the charming confidence that assumed that he both deserved and would receive what he wanted. His education, his job, his life? Check, check, and check. It was like wanting a drink of water while at home. Sure, he thirsted and took steps to quench the thirst, but the steps were easy and the thirst was always quenched. For Hal, meetings his wants and need had been that simple.

But to meet his inability to meet this need that had sprung upon him unbidden and against which he seemingly had no recourse? That his life had taken such a turn and left him such a ridiculous place?

THAT was the worst of it.

An elderly gentlemen swept his eye across a room crowded with tutors. He was hoping no one would notice.

He walked over to the immaculately organized shelves of grammar, style, and syntax handouts and appeared to peruse its abundant offerings. Out of the corner of his azure eyes, he examined the lithe young woman to his left. Although his very movements, or lack of them, oozed subtlety, a fine, rose flush colored the most tender part of the back of her neck. She continued with her explanation of split infinitives for a few moments, then excused herself sweetly. She joined him in front of the myriad handouts and stood silently for a moment. Then, she spoke in little above a whisper.

“You mustn’t come here anymore, Fletcher. People will begin to talk.”

“Why? I am a professor. I simply want to give my students these handouts.”

“You only come in when I work. It’s becoming obvious. We simply cannot continue these daytime meetings. I live in fear that–”

“That what? That some narrow-minded people suspect something? They know nothing, darling.”

“But Fletcher! If they did suspect! If they did know! Our beautiful life would be shattered! It is problematic; I am your student!”

“You WERE my student, darling. Now you are Eloise’s student. Thus, no conflict, moral or practical. Now, would you like chicken or lamb for dinner?”

“Lamb, I think. And what about dessert?”

“You.”

With a sly grin, Fletcher gathered a sheaf of random handouts and left with the confidence of a nearly 50-year-old man who plays house with a barely 20-year-old girl. The young tutor took a deep breath to steady herself, selected the appropriate piece of paper, and returned to her student.

“So,” said Madison brightly, “where were we?”

WHY IGNORANCE IS BLISS

As soon as Fletcher sauntered into the Way With Words Writing Co-Op, I groaned aloud. My student gave me a weird look, but I explained nothing. I prefer not to become overly familiar with the students that I tutor, I mean, with the students whom I guide to the path of writing wisdom. I find that keeping an air of mystery is essential in maintaining a proper student-academician relationship. My students must be able to rely on my expertise and be confident in my ability to provide a proper learning environment. Therefore, it’s really all for the best that they know as little about what’s going on in my head as possible.

Besides, while Fletcher and Madison’s affair is an open secret among the faculty and my staff of academicians, I do try to avoid indulging in spurious gossip with undergraduates. That’s what my friends on the faculty are for.

And yes, we all know about Fletcher and Madison. How? Perhaps it’s the fact that Fletcher frequents the WWWWC; faculty does stop by for various reasons, but usually not four times a week. Perhaps it’s that Madison leaves a light trail of Eau de L’Homme, Fletcher’s signature cologne, behind her when she flits about the WWWWC. Perhaps it’s how he appraises her like she is a pool that he wants to dive into and swim up every time he comes in. Perhaps it’s that she mentions “Flet…my friend” and then blushes.

Or, perhaps it’s the fact that Fletcher woos and beds a new Madison (or Kaitlynn, or Ashleigh, or Kaysie, or Morgan, or Emmelee) every few years. Oh, he’s careful: the girls never remain his students and are always legal. Inevitably, they stay together for a few years, and then the Madisons of Fletcher’s world evaporate into the ether of the inappropriate girlfriend (emphasis on girl) hall of fame.

But don’t weep for Fletcher. Remember, he’s a university professor. He has a whole campus of replacements lining up at his door during office hours–or Fletcher’s Fox Hunt, as my friend Caroline refers to them. And this year, it’s Madison who’s been caught. Good lord.

Maybe I should take her aside, but really what can I say? Please proofread this handout, and, by the way, tell your boyfriend, who was totally checking out the barely legal student from Helsinki, to stop coming in all the time? Really, is warning my academicians about semi-dirty old men part of my duties at the WWWWC?

According to Chester, the man who thinks he’s my boss, yes. Anything that relates to the WWWWC is my business, and into it I must butt. The goal of the WWWWC is to embrace, support, and promote the entire university community through the great art of writing, and anything that detracts from that goal is on my conscience. Warning Madison about Fletcher is therefore my moral and professional duty, but not because she is a naive girl who doesn’t know that first thing about men of this flavour. No, I must have a completely inappropriate and humiliating conversation with the girl because her love life might affect her ability to explain the many uses of dashes and hyphens. Oh, the humanity!

Clearly, Chester and I disagree about a few things, chief among the the fact that he thinks that he has any authority over me. However, I must admit that I do feel a bit guilty about not talking to Madison about the whole Fletcher thing. Not for the sake of the WWWWC, but for Madison. She’s a nice but naive girl who’s fallen hard for a loveable cad. Loveable, but a cad nonetheless. I can see that the whole situation will end with her tears, yet I say nothing. Some great boss I am.

And yes, crazy as it sounds, I am Madison’s boss (really, not in the delusional Chester way). In fact, I run the whole bloody WWWWC on the Western Campus of J—- University. I am responsible for the Center and its contents: students, academicians, dictionaries, computers, and turtles. Sometimes I want to freak out a bit about it all, but luckily, I rarely have time. I do, however, sometimes have time to ask myself the eternal question: what’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?

WHAT A NICE GIRL LIKE ME IS DOING IN A PLACE LIKE THIS

Long story short, someone went crazy. This lead to that, and that lead me here. Simple, no?

No.

I really can’t talk too much about the crazy thing because I wasn’t at the WWWWC at the time. Apparently, the scenario involved a particularly nasty clash over the propriety of using FANBOYS as transitions at the beginning of a sentence and ended in recriminations being hurled about everything from pay to leave time to the age of the massive tin of Folger’s in fridge. The matter was resolved with a generous stress leave that is rumoured to turn into an even more generous severance package in a year or two. In the meantime, the WWWWC needed sometime relatively stable and competent to handle it. Pickins were slim, so I ended up with the position, a fact that still rather startles me. I mean, I can barely run my own life, and I’ve been entrusted with a staff, students, and a generous budget? Huh.

I never set out to be the Head Academician at the Way With Words Writing Co-Op. I actually never set out to be an academic at all. I was going to be fabulous, and my way to fabulosity was through the written word. But as it turns out, I am not fabulous. I’m a geek of the Liz Lemon flavour, so after my sojourn in grad school, I fell into an instructor position. After I came to WU, I also did some “guiding” in the WWWWC, and after the crazy, I was chosen to head up the place. And that was that.

I suppose that I could have said no, but I kind of like the WWWWC. I miss teaching, but the WWWWC does offer a peek at the drama of the human condition. And besides, I have never before been so well-informed of the vagaries and indignities we all suffer. Just take poor Hal, for instance.

WHAT THE HAL?

Hal pretty much had his life in order. He was a tenured full professor, he enjoyed a stellar academic reputation, and both this colleagues and his students appreciated his gently biting wit. As well, he was a pioneer in his field; major news outlets called him whenever they needed an appropriate quote or explanation.

All in all, Hal was a rock star. And just like any rock star, Hal had a sizzlin’ wife. Oh, not in the Pam Anderson-Kid Rock way–Felicity, his wife, was much more Gwyneth Paltrow. She was indeed the perfect academic wife: cool and collected, but not cold; smart but not overbearing; charming but not fake; gorgeous but not intimidating.

Hal and Felicity were the campus’ golden couple. The fact that she had been his student about 12 years ago was long forgotten; what did it matter? They were wonderful, both together and individually. People loved Hal, and the same people also loved Felicity.

The Dean loved her. Hal’s Chair loved her. Hal’s grad students loved her. Hal’s admins loved her. Hal loved her.

Felicity, as it turns out, loved The Student. Or at least she loved screwing him in her marital bed.

Sometimes in the aftermath, Hal asked himself how in holy hell he hadn’t seen (or heard) it sooner. But how would he have even known to look? And if he had known, why would he have wanted to? Surely, rigorous academic inquiry doesn’t extend to one’s seemingly faithful wife.

And how did Hal find out? Well, like any melodrama, it began on a gloomy day that was full of foreboding: evaluation day.

EVALUATION DAY

Evaluation Day–always in caps, so important is it to us wretches without tenure–is, quite frankly, the most stomach-churning day of the semester. On this horrid day, we turn over our professional reputations and chances for future employment to a wholly unknowable entity: our students.

The whole exercise is nerve-wracking. My colleagues have various ways of handling the tension: Caroline spends sleepless nights trying to figure out which class will write what; Mari(lyn, but call her that on the pain of death) brings increasingly expensive chocolate to class during the preceding weeks “just because”; Cosma over-prepares to make certain that her students receive the best lesson ever; Graham shows the students a movie to engage their “critical thinking” skills.

As for me? Well, I become obnoxiously cheery and encouraging and allow students to hand in shamefully overdue work. Oh, and I ramp up my intake of Vitamin B: bourbon, Kentucky’s best.

The thing is, we can never know what the students will write. I have taught classes whose evaluation I was sure would be the death of me; in the end, they were complimentary. On the other hand, I’ve had classes bitch and moan about the littlest thing on the evals, although they were cowardly to address their grievances directly to me, the person who actually could have helped them out. It’s a crap shoot, and it’s not fair that our employment rests in part on the whims of undergrads.

To be fair, most of the students who fill out the evals do try to offer constructive criticism. But the whole set up is rather hard to swallow, given that students sometimes take out personal hardships on us. I once had a student approach me sheepishly after evals and ask my department chair’s name. I told him the name and asked if I could help him with anything first.

“Well, it’s about the evaluation,” he muttered, staring at this shoes. “I might have been a little harsh. See, the night before, my girlfriend refused to–”

“Um, that’s ok, no need to explain!” I cried cheerfully.

“Anyway,” he continued,”I wanted to tell him I didn’t mean when I said that you should literally suck it. I’m really sorry.”

Of course, I had to forgive him and not take my revenge on his mark, but really? This ridiculous child’s review of my professional accomplishments is valid and important in the eyes of the department? In the words of the same student, that’s fucked up, yo.

But that’s also the way it is. And the university does exist for education of these very students. But sometimes…well, let’s just say I’ve had to let go of certain delusions that I had the first few years I worked in academia. I think I began this process when I was appointed the hockey team’s writing bitch.

THE PUCK STOPS HERE

It strikes me that I have not been the most clear in my explanation of my professional duties: in addition to running the Way With Words Writing Co-Op, I teach two classes a term. I negotiated the classes when I agreed to head up the WWWWC. To begin, I like teaching. I find energy when I connect with my students. As well, I think it’s important that I stay directly in tune with what the faculty does and expects from various classes; that way, I am best able to direct my staff and help students. For personal and professional reasons, my continued presence in the classroom is imperative.

Plus, some days I just need to get the hell out of the WWWWC. I really do like it, but I love it more when I can come back later. And I like the little coffee shop on the way to and from classes. Barb, the wonderful barista, makes a masterful Americano.

And the hockey team? Well,here’s the thing: I work not on the main campus, with its gorgeous Georgian buildings, beautifully-maintained quadrangles, bountiful trees, major programs of study, performing arts centre, and faculty club. Nope, that’s Chester’s domain.

My little piece of the university is Western Campus, which was originally an outpost for a renowned women’s college on the Eastern seaboard. Just as whitey conquered the West, Main Campus conquered Western Campus, and both are part of the same institution now. Western Campus has lovely stone buildings, charming bridges, an art museum, a swan pond, Interdisciplinary Studies (aka design your own major), Barb, and the hockies.

Which of these things is not like the others?

See, the hockey team has done quite well in recent years and thus the university was the recipient of a major, major gift. The donor stipulated that the donation was to be used to build a state-of-the-art rink, complete with training, nutrition, and study areas. Everything the hockies need is right there so that they can focus on their sport and their academics—and in that order, too. The best plot of land available abutted Western Campus, so we got new neighbours. And I got new students.

I suppose I could have said no when the department chair approached me with the news that I was now to be the hockey team’s writing bitch. Not only would I teach their first year comp and lit class, I would be presiding over their study tables once a week to help all team members with any writing issues that they might have. Fortunately, their wanting me to fix their work wasn’t considered so much a valid issue as cheating.

As well, I’m to be available to them when they are on the road. At least they sometimes bring me back hotel soap for my troubles.

Actually, I shouldn’t complain. The hockies are like most other students: cocksure (in more ways than one), funny but not, unsure, above my approval in the classes, desperate for my approval one-on-one. In other words, they’re 18 years old.

Except for the one. The one who came into my class while I stealing some quiet moments before the thundering herds came jostling in. The one who caused me to upset Barb’s best Americano yet and dump it into my lap, possibly searing away my lady bits for life. The one who drove all thoughts of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay from my conscious mind.

The one who simply said, “Hello, Meghan.”

Oh, shit.

I JUST WORK HERE

I’m “in charge” at the WWWWC. I say “in charge” because, really? My main job is to make sure the turtles stay alive. In theory, however, I responsible for a crack team of academicians, all of whom are responsible for helping students find their writing paths; if that task is impossible, then my academicians are at least can tell our tutees the difference between a comma and a period.

I like my academicians. They’re not all of a kind, but they do share some very important characteristics. My academicians are kind, perceptive, good humoured, smart people. They know their grammar and essay structure, but they are not intimidating. Most importantly, they can keep plants alive and me sane. These two tasks are not at all small.

My academicians are:

Ben: French major, deep thinker, political activist. He can often be found protesting about campus. Last week, it was the price of pencils in the bookstore (admittedly, those things ARE a rip-off of the highest order). Ben longs to go to France and join a real protest. I told him to minor in Italian to up his chances of experiencing relatively safe civil unrest. He signed up for Italian 101 the next term.

Madison: Early Childhood Development and Education major. She wants to work with small children, and her patience and sweetness in the WWWWC lead me to believe that she will be good in the field. Madison likes empathizing, spynga, and movies with improbably happy endings. I think those movies are directly to blame for her staying with Fletcher.

Moonjewel: Finance major. Her parents are hippies, and Moonjewel has done rebelled. She’s savvy and straightforward and quite preppy. Moonjewel can be found kicking ass and taking names on the university debate circuit, and she single handedly pulled the school’s Women’s Business Association from deep debt to comfort in one semester. A word to the wise: call her Moonjewel only if you’d like to have your tongue ripped out. We all call her MJ.

Freddy: Photojournalism major. He can usually be found snapping pictures at whatever protest Ben’s leading. He’s funny and fearless, which makes me dread for his safety after graduation. Freddy’s from a small town and took some flack—ok, lots of flack—growing up. However, university has done him wonders; he’s blossomed into the best parts of himself and has found his passion. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s good friends with Garrett.

Garrett: Sports Management major. Yep, reader, I hired a hockey. Garrett’s rather the WWWWC’s wild card. At first, I couldn’t understand why he wanted to tutor. Garrett’s a busy boy: he practices nearly every day, he watches game videos, he trains. He also goes to all his classes and does all his work. Clearly, he doesn’t have much time, but he makes time for the WWWWC because, as he says, “I like the turtles.” Lucky me, because he also works very well with resentful guys who have been sent to us by their profs. In that capacity alone, Garrett is worth his weight in pucks.

Ariadne: Composition and Rhetoric grad student. Ariadne’s focus is the way in which the personal relationship between tutor and tutee can impact the tutee’s relationship with the writing process. Her theory is that if the tutee has no desire to please the tutor, then no positive change can occur in the tutee’s writing. Thus, it is imperative that the tutor and tutee have a warm personal relationship, and it is also imperative that the WWWWC carefully schedule all appointments so that all tutees will only be exposed to tutors who might become close personal friends. Yeah, I know.

Colin: 18^th Century American Literature grad student. Usually grad students in lit don’t work at the WWWWC as they TA for a lit prof or teach one of the first year composition classes. Colin, however, asked to be placed in the WWWWC in addition to his TA duties. His reason is the usual: he’s poor. Grad school’ll do that to a person. Although I wish he were paid what he deserves for his TA work, I’m really glad that Colin is with us. He’s smart and has excellent instincts for helping students produce their best work. Plus, he likes to talk about geeky pop culture with me.

As I said earlier, neither the WWWWC nor I could function without these academicians. They keep the Center running comfortably. They keep the plants watered. And they keep me in fresh coffee (when Barb’s not). Really, what more could a girl ask for?

WHAT MORE A GIRL COULD ASK FOR

I took the long way back to the WWWWC from my class. I needed some time to walk and breathe. Stomp and huff is more like it, but still. How DARE he? And right before class, too!

Speaking of class, it was not brilliant but neither was it bad. My lecture style is usually pretty loose and interactive. While I try to ensure that we hit all relevant points, I feel that I am at my best as an instructor when the students and I have a back and forth, seminar-type class. They ask questions, I ask questions, we discuss (and I provide any necessary background). I walk around, I sit on my desk, I stay up. It’s easier for them to stay involved if they perceive that I am, too.

However. Parading about in front of a group of students looking like I’d just peed myself—at best—was not my idea of good time. So I decided to lecture from the podium, where I could easily access the projector for my visuals. Luckily, the lecture was mostly background on historical context of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay as well as on comic books. The class was going to be lecture-oriented anyway, so I figured standing at the podium was no problem. Who’d notice or care, anyway?

Let one thing be said about the sport of hockey: it often makes its players observant. They notice little things, and then they pounce. This technique is quite useful on the ice, as it allows them to make game-changing decisions. In the classroom, though, they often employ it for different purposes: “bonding” with me.

All in all, lecture was good. They paid attention, asked questions, and whined minimally. As I getting ready to dismiss them, Duncan, a winger, raised his hand. He’d been quiet all class, so I expected that he was chewing something over. And he was, and had been all class. Only it wasn’t about literature.

“Meghan? Do you need us to bring you back some stain remover from our trip this weekend? We can get it at the hotel with the soap.”

Thanks, Duncan.

So, stomp and huff it was. I was walking over the narrow stone footbridges that abound on Western Campus. The campus is in a lovely, hilly area, and Western has many ravines and streams that are spanned by bridges. These footbridges are made of fieldstone and rather remind me of Roman aqueducts. The area is also heavily treed, which makes the path a thing of beauty in autumn. Actually, Western is always beautiful. The whole campus is, really.

As well, Western Campus offers many solitary spots for reflection. I was stomping off my annoyance, I looked over at a particular nook of which I’m fond. It’s just off the foot bridge that connects Jarratt Hall, which houses the WWWWC, and Keebler Chapel. A small stone bench is nestled into a little grove of trees, and everything about the spot is just right: perfect amounts of sun and shine, breeze and calm, solitude and company. I often come to this spot during lunch just for quiet.

I was getting ready to head over the bench when I realized that it was occupied. Hal was sitting on it, flipping through what looked to be a Moleskin notebook with a quizzical look on his face. He looked up and noticed me, which made me feel awkward. In the grand scheme of J—– University, I am nobody. Hal’s everybody and then some. And my awkwardnedd was tripled with my knowledge of the whole Felicity thing. Of course I knew; who didn’t? Still, I since I’d started to venture toward the bench, I had to continue my course.

“Hello,” I said cheerfully.

“Oh, hello, Meghan,” he said, dumbfounding me with his knowledge of my name. “Coming back from class.”

“Um, yeah. We’ve just started Kavalier and Clay. Although I really shouldn’t be teaching it. I mean, I can teach it, it’s just that I feel like I’m cheating them. They should be getting it from you, not me.” Jeezus, could I be anymore ridiculous? I was trying to find a hole to pitch myself into when Hal spoke.

“Do you know who this little book might belong to? I’ve looked for a name but I can’t find one. It’s most…extraordinary.”

After I assured Hal that I didn’t know but would keep my ears open, I said my goodbyes and hightailed it back to the Centre. Ariadne greeted me with scowl. After chastising my for taking longer than she thought I should, she declared that I’d had a visitor and that he would be back later. I thanked her for the message, and then I went to my office to change into my yoga pants. Professional? No. Dry? Yes. I dropped my wet, coffee bedecked pants and was pulling up my yoga pants when the door to my office flew open. I stood there in shock, looking over my shoulder at Ariadne, my chair, and HIM. Not only did they get a great view of the tsunami of paper in my office, but they also got a great view of my academic ass.

“Hello, Meghan,” HE said, grinning and practically snorting with laughter.

What more could a girl ask for? How’s about academicians with the sense to knock before opening a door, for god’s sake?!?

*so totally fake–really, it’s not true, not even the turtles

**of laughter at my absurdity