Tale of the Taconic Mountains. Mike M.D. Romeling
Now George no longer had to worry about gaining tenure but only need concern himself with treading lightly through the maze of egos, politics, and inept procedural nonsense that always creep into even the smallest of bureaucracies. But since George was well aware of his own limitations and had no strong feelings about anything in particular beyond surviving his own unexpected good luck, he offended no one. He felt safe, well-placed and delighted.
When George had gotten his promotion, Nelson remembered, the two men had celebrated together all that day and half the night. Why weren’t they doing something like that for this occasion? After all, George had gotten what he wanted; surely he knew this was his friend’s turn. Well maybe there was a bottle of champagne waiting in George’s desk or they would go out somewhere this evening. And as he was still new in Administration, at least compared to most of the other cranky, sleepy stalwarts who would apparently never retire or die, George had told Nelson he needed to be careful that Nelson’s situation be handled strictly by the book with no whiff of favoritism. Everyone knew they were friends. Their wives had taken to each other as well, and so the two couples had made it a habit to get together each Monday evening to play cards, although the men were always careful to sit at the table in such a way that they were able to keep an eye on the football game.
Of course all that was before Marge had left Nelson. There is nothing quite like marital woes to suddenly make things awkward among married friends. The Monday night card games were over of course, and Nelson found himself hovering awkwardly at the faculty cocktail parties as people came up to him and asked with whispery concerned voices, “How are you?” He always gave them the answer they wanted, the highly creative “I’m fine, thank you, how are you?” A few would assure him that they were always around if he needed to talk and, “We must do lunch sometime and how about all this rain we’re having?” No one ever brought up his new girlfriend of course.
Nelson didn’t mind; he’d be free of all this soon enough. Ten years of solid work were behind him now and he looked forward to his year-long sabbatical and writing his novel in the mountains far away from here. All he had to do was struggle through the rest of the Spring Term and he was delivered. Hallelujah.
The elevator door hissed open on the fourth floor of the Administration building and Nelson stopped into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He combed his hair and started to button his brown corduroy jacket but then decided to keep it open. Taking a final look, he reached up and tousled his hair, trying to make it look fuller. Of course he sometimes, briefly, in moments of weakness, entertained the suspicion his hair was thinning. But he was still clinging to the various fantasies that kept him in denial most of the time. If he could just get rid of those split ends, for instance, everything would be back to where it was. Or else it was just a matter of finding the right conditioner because the damn water was so hard around here. Or maybe he needed to take more vitamins...and anyway it was probably just the normal shedding and regrowth pattern.
George Schott stood up from behind his mammoth desk and held out his hand when Nelson entered. This gesture struck Nelson as oddly formal considering their long association. Nevertheless, he cheerfully shook hands and then seated himself across the desk from his old friend. George hitched his pants up and sat down heavily. Since he had cut down on his drinking, George had taken to eating copious amounts of candy corn for compensation. The result had been considerable weight gain. But at least his complexion was now much less of a tell-tale rosy shade except where his tight collar rubbed irritatingly against his second chin.
“Well now, Jimmy, how the hell are you? It occurs to me we don’t see each other enough these days and when we do it’s all about business.”
Nelson smiled. Nobody but George called him Jimmy, not even when he was a kid. There had been three other James-Jims-Jimmys-Jimbos in his high school class and so gradually Nelson had become his moniker to almost everyone except his mother who called him James Richard, either when she was cross with him or particularly proud of him. This was definitely okay with Nelson who liked his last name better anyway. Sometimes when the two men were drinking and getting tight together, George would drawl his first name out in a vaguely Irish-sounding brogue, Ji-ih-me-ee, and then perhaps forget what the hell he had been about to say. And they would laugh together like morons and say, “fuck it” and clink their glasses of Scotch together as though something meaningful had just happened. Well, they’d had some fun—or at least what passed for fun in those days—but it was just as well over with now. Nelson had known all along with a gnawing unease that he had lingered in that time-wasting, alcohol-fueled rut mostly so he did not have to confront the fact that he was not writing, and not confronting his deteriorating marriage either. Well, no matter; he’d have plenty of time and inspiration to write again now and he was stoked about it.
“I’m great, George. Been looking forward to today.”
George reached into his glass bowl filled with candy corn, popped several pieces into his mouth and chewed reflectively. “As you know Jimmy, the committee asked me, in light of our long association, to give you the decision on your sabbatical proposal. I was only too glad to agree, but of course at that time I had no idea they were going to throw a curve at me.”
Nelson winced. “Are we talking major league curve or little league curve here George?” His own voice suddenly seemed far away.
“Listen Jimmy, we’ve always been straight with each other so I’ll say this right out—the committee said no.”
When faced with devastating tidings, the mind is only too happy to let the irrational take over for a while and suggest that, whatever calamity is under way, it just might conceivably be a bad dream. It’s a kindness of sorts, a way to allow time for a better defense or attack mechanisms to take shape.
“They refused it outright?” Nelson finally spluttered.
George looked longingly at his bowl of candy corn but knew it was the wrong time to do anything so trivial. “Yes, I’m sorry, Jimmy. But they made it clear, in light of your long service and whatnot, that they would entertain another worthier proposal at a later time. Too late for this year I’m afraid.”
It was doubtless the word worthier that enabled Nelson to move instantly from maybe-this-is-a-dream, quickly on through I-can‘t-believe-this-is-happening, to arrive at his final destination—I-am-totally-pissed-off.
“What the hell do they mean by something worthier? They want me to become a Boy Scout leader or something for Christ’s sake. Come on, George, what’s going on here?”
George shifted his weight in the chair which creaked in mild protest. “The committee felt, as I understand it, that in view of our well known financial doldrums, they have to be stricter in what they agree to in these situations. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, Jimmy.”
Nelson sat back wearily. Jesus, seven years ago when he had his novel published, he could have moved on to a larger, more prestigious university. He’d even tested the waters discreetly. But in the end he’d decided he’d rather be a big fish in a little pond. Besides, he liked Millbank, nestled away in rustic Vermont with honest-to-god ivy growing up its walls. A lot of these newer colleges looked like strip malls.
“Look, George, I’ve got another novel in my head; I just need the time and the quiet to write it. I’m the only published novelist in this whole damn place. That’s supposed to be a feather in the cap of these crummy hallowed halls isn’t it? So now they won’t give me the chance to do it again? What kind of shit is this?”
George eyed the candy corn again but managed to resist. “It was pointed out that your second novel never got published and it’s been seven years since the first one. You know, Jimmy, it’s the old what have you done for me lately syndrome I guess.”
“Yeah, maybe, but my first one sold almost a half million copies, George. Do you know how rare that is for a first novel? Then my damn editor went to another publishing house and the next guy they assigned me was a moron. On top of that, my agent stumbled onto a blockbuster book by some call girl he found somewhere. And suddenly I couldn’t get this guy on the phone to save my life because he’d run off with the call girl. Everything went wrong