A Visit with Colm

The door to Colm’s office was partially open, something that’s unusual for him. Most of the time he hides behind a closed door and, like most of us, he has pictures taped up on the inside of the door’s sidelight, blocking inquisitive colleagues or students from catching a glimpse of whatever might be going on inside. Most professors use photos at least tangentially related to their field–elaborately  costumed actors or brooding authors are the usual favorites. Colm has an action shot collage of former Manchester United anger management candidate Roy Keane, although there is a book jacket photo of political philosopher/theorist Frantz Fanon at the very top of the window, a nod to his other specialty. I gave the door a push and let myself in. Colm sat at his desk, feat up, wearing shorts, those strange sandals that Norwegians wear and a Barcelona football shirt. He was in high dudgeon, pointing at his computer monitor and cursing:

Colm: These fucking people.

Turdling: Who?

Colm: Do you get these emails?

Turdling: I get emails, yes.

Colm: But these, this sort, I shouldn’t have to do this any more. What’s the point of tenure if I still have to write recommendations.

Turdling: Tenure doesn’t mean you give up on being human.

Colm: The fuck it doesn’t.

Turdling: Haven’t you always ignored recommendations?

Colm: Of course, but I thought I’d seen an end to this.

Turdling: Forward them to Nathan.

Colm: Ohhh, that’s fucking brilliant. Right, here we go (he starts typing).

Turdling: Hey, what’s with the sandals.

Colm: What about ’em?

Turdling: You’re a pair of socks away from being a Reiki instructor. You used to wear suits.

Colm: It was expected, but this is me from now on, I absolutely don’t care anymore. Yesterday I wore fucking swim trunks to class.

Turdling: Jesus.

Colm: Don’t shake your head at me, you’d do the same if you could.