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Attitudes. W. Ross Winterowd
Читать онлайн.Название Attitudes
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isbn 9781602357990
Автор произведения W. Ross Winterowd
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Ingram
“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 day I found a senior who hadn’t read ‘Ash Wednesday.’ Now that’s a shame. Maybe we ought to raise our admission standards. Don’t the high schools give students any preparation? After all, shouldn’t we be able to expect that our students would know at least the anthology kind of stuff? I don’t mean the hard stuff like Finnegan’s Wake, but everyone—and I mean everyone—should have read Portrait of the Artist. I mean, after all, how can you claim to understand the twenty-first century if you haven’t read Portrait of the Artist? I’m hungry. Is there anything to eat? Alvin, where’s my drink?”
Professor Peggy O’Neil now had a fleet of tenders; besides Alvin, there were Mel and Bobby, Alex Hamilton, Bertha Bankopf, Merrill Woodsman, the utility socialites Herb and Nancy Grupp, and more were expected, for this was the annual end-of-semester department get-together and cocktail party.
“ . . . I’m starved. Isn’t there anything to
eat? . . .”
Kate Reese entered the room, pausing to look about and get her bearings and then moving toward the galaxy clustered about Peggy O’Neil. Alex Hamilton put his arm around her waist, and she pecked him on the cheek. Pottle Tinker patted her on the shoulder and greeted her: “I’m . . . hrumph . . . happy to see you. I think . . . hrumph . . . you’ve been . . . hrumph . . . avoiding me.” Kendall Turing kissed her on her ear when she turned her head.
Kate was now the party’s cynosure, and Peggy O’Neil was talking largely to herself.
“ . . . and I simply told him, ‘Hillis, you, Geoffrey and Harold live in a dream world. I mean, you don’t know. . . . ‘“
The room was filling rapidly. Guests entered two-by-two, three-by-three, and four-by-four. With each set of arrivals, the decibel level rose perceptibly, a cacophonous cocktail symphony.
“ . . . they deal with the cream of crop. The best students. Is there anything to eat? I’m starved. . . .”
The host, Professor Adam Adam, came to the rescue. To save Professor Peggy O’Neil from the horrors of inanition, he offered her a tray of golden spheres and a bowl of sour cream.
“I just don’t understand why—What’s that?” asked Peggy O’Neil, pausing long enough to notice the proffered provender.
“It’s falafel,” said a dour Professor Adam Adam.
“Fa- what?” inquired Peggy O’Neil.
“Fa-lafel,” said Adam.
“What’s falafel?” asked O’Neil.
“It’s a Mideastern dish. Actually, deep-fried camel dung,” explained Adam.
“Oh!” said a startled Peggy O’Neil. “Oh, you’re kidding.” And she giggled. “Seriously, what is it?”
“Try it, and see if you like it. Take one and dip it in the sour cream.”
Peggy obeyed. “Hm, not bad.” she said. “Not bad at all.” She took another, dipped it, shoved it in her mouth, and continued: “But I want to tell you about my new project. I’m very very excited. . . .”
Isolated in a corner with Bobby, grumbling Mel muttered, “What a pain in the ass. I don’t know why you insisted that we come to this party.”
“You know,” said Bobby, “you really look like hell tonight. What’s wrong? Your hand’s shaking so badly that you’ve slopped your drink. Have a couple more and you’ll settle down. Come on. Why don’t you try to enjoy yourself? Let’s mingle and talk to people. There are Jerry and Bridget.”
Across the room from the Druses, Professor Gerald Gelb was talking earnestly with Assistant Professor Bridget Heiman. When Bobby and Mel edged into the territory staked out by this pair, Gelb, alternately stroking his beard and raking his fingers through his long hair, was saying, “You understand I don’t believe in confrontations, not at all. I’d rather talk to people in