Leo Makes a House Call

I’ve taken to using the conference room in the departmental office for student meetings. It’s an interior room with windows all around; the fishbowl aspect proves to all who walk by that I frequently appear to be hard at work. It also solves the problem of female students having to walk into my office, a horrible, closety space filled with journals and unreturned papers and small piles of forgotten clothing. There is of course not an ounce of menace in me, but the place looks like the sort of stygian back alley they’ve been told to avoid; “trust your instincts, if something feels wrong it probably is,” is a line from the almost weekly reminder sent out by Lt. Fernando Turgid, Head of Campus Security. I have no interest in making anyone uncomfortable, plus the office has developed an unidentifiable odor over the last couple of years, the source of which remains elusive. And so I’ve turned to the conference room, a clean well lighted place, a sterile theatre without the peril inherent to cloistered intellectual activity.

Last Thursday I was in the conference room working though a short story with a graduate student, sorting out language, clarifying character intentions, drinking tea. We were making progress and I leaned back in my chair to stretch a bit. I looked off towards the door, and there stood the squat, balding figure of Leo Papadakis, Emeritus Professor of Song. He was holding an enormous paper bag and was attempting to gain entrance.