Look Closer(3)

I’m not doing it. I’m not changing how I dress and I’m not sucking up to the faculty at poker games and cocktail parties and I’m not using Latin words and I sure as shit am not using footnotes.

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 it, and he can reluctantly reveal 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. Senator Paul 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 blueblood, 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 the but . . .

“Now I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Simon.”

In the history of mankind, nobody has followed I don’t want you to take this the wrong way with 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.

“And Reid, I’m sure you’re aware, has been here a year longer than you.”

“I’m aware of that. And I’m aware that you’re only granting one position.”

“Just so, just so,” he says, so eager and condescending that it feels like he might toss a dog treat into my mouth. “And, well, this is delicate, but you can probably imagine that Reid has a fair level of support. You know how these things go—it’s his turn.”

Plenty of associate professors have been denied a full professorship. We don’t tell people it’s their turn. Not unless their father is a walking ATM.

“I would just hate . . .” His fingers work the air, like he’s trying to capture just the way to put it, like he doesn’t have this speech prepared. “I think it might be preferable for you if you waited until the next opening. Then you’d be applying without the mark of having applied once and been denied.”

“You think I’ll be denied.” I don’t say it as a question. But it is a question, I think. There are some old-school, clubby types who probably don’t take to me, but there are plenty of good, nonpolitical people here, like Anshu, who think that quality teaching and standout scholarship are what matters, not how you dress or who you know.

“Well, obviously, it’s nothing that committal. But as I say, Reid does enjoy substantial support. Not that anyone remotely questions your scholarship, Simon. You’ve done fine work.”

Right, you’ll say it to anyone.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about, Dean,” I say.

I leave the office, so he can pick up the phone and call Reid’s dad and tell him that he had the talk with me, and things are going swimmingly.

? ? ?

Now I’m late for the haircut. I usually walk, as it’s only a few blocks away. Instead I head out the Superior Street side and into the outdoor faculty parking lot. I usually get here earlier than others and park in one of the front rows.