The
Tenured Guy
by Jim Daniels |
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The Tenured Guy Learns to Cook You were one of two tenured among fifteen hired over ten years. The old gay drunk who favored young drama students but was too old to grasp them in his tiny spider-like arms patted your ass at parties. Harmless enough, but he still had a vote. Once while you were pissing at a urinal he grabbed your neck and praised it as a wrestler's neck. Harmless enough, since someone walked in and he moved away. He had a vote. Dinner invitations you could not ignore, but always asked to bring a date, a date bribed with cocaine. She talked up such a storm, you snuck out in the clouds and rain. You asked for his recipe for whatever it was he made. He had a vote. He complained when you grew a beard, covered your pretty face. You shaved. He had a vote and he gave it to you. Years later, his drinking spills into hallways, a coffee cup full of brandy, his breath withering students in nearly empty classrooms. He teeters into incoherent monologues, his glasses sliding off onto the floor with a clatter. At the meeting to decide his fate, you hold the index card with his mad scribble 350Ã for an hour and firmly state we have to get rid of him. He bitterly tosses his silver retirement cup into a bag after the department has mustered every good thing to say, every warm body with a desire for free cake. A cut on his forehead from a fall. You lick the sweet frosting off your fingers and step up to pray over the corpse. You put your hand on his shoulder, and he twitches. The Tenured Guy Calculates Salaries You've got a formula that figures in ass-kissing and grade inflation. The pal factor, the longevity factor, the padded vitae factor, the committee-wonk factor, the self-promoting factor, the gossip factor, the meeting- attendance factor, the disagreeing- with-the-Head factor, the parking lot factor and the cocktail factor, the lame-publication factor, the rest room- stink factor, the chewing-too-loud factor, the jeans factor, the letter-to-the-editor factor, the faction factor, the miniskirt factor, the sportscar factor, the too-chummy-with-student factor, the not-chummy-enough factor, the dean- and-provost-tennis-playing factor, the president's son factor, the rich-alumni factor, the simple royal pain-in-the-ass factor. Your raise: 2%. You wander the hallways, poking into offices, counting on your fingers. Adjusting for the cost of living. The Tenured Guy With His Fly Down You write and erase simultaneously, Blackboard dust flying in the hiss. September heat wave, the classroom pressing in on itself with young, aggressive sweat. They are dazed with boredom even when you look down and notice, even when you turn away. The Tenured Guy Rocks On I don't give a damn about my bad reputation sings Joan Jett in tight jump- suit black leather she flicks flicks sweat into the crowd you are too far away to feel it land but it is a gesture you appreciate concerned as you are with your own reputation reputation some colleagues would laugh at you for going to see her- not what they associate with an Associate. maybe jazz maybe blues but not Joan Jett and the Black Hearts. whatever she has cuts through the endless meetings where no one says what they think, exactly. a bald guy in silk jacket Rock `n Roll Forever dancing up front a little paunch showing- that's you. you. when she sings the old Sly song "Everyday People" You start to cry for no reason reason. The Tenured Guy: Standards For Artistic Excellence You've been putting off your standards statement for weeks. Do penguins really smell that bad in Antarctica or is it just the zoo stench? How's that statement coming? Your Head asks every time he sees you. You've got tenure--you could propose anything. You got through when they had no standards statement. You put an acorn on your thumb: Hey Pierre, you with the snappy beret, what kinda standards you got? The Emeritus with fifty years in sat next to you at the last meeting doodling. His spirals had real authority. They used to keep the gorilla in a cage with a tire on a chain for a swing-Bobo- he'd spit, and you'd run screaming. How did we ever vote him through, you imagine them thinking. Hey Bobo, you shout to the gorilla who's too far away, now living in his natural habitat. Animals don't have names any more. And that's okay, you think. Standards change over time. The Tenured Guy On Sabbatical In the country outside Paris you begin your research on texture and light in the blah blah blah. You try to expand your fictive breath into a novel, you explore the nasal passages of French poets. Whatever. Your latest lover--whoever, it will come to nothing--paints large black canvases in the studio above you. She's twenty years younger. You gave her the better light. * The picturesque stones never get warm. You spend mornings building fires with wet wood. After a month, you've got good technique and style-- your fires have style. You'll be sure to include that in your final report. Wet wood--an apt metaphor for something. How will we get those canvases home? you ask. You suspect she's along for the ride. She'll drop you the minute you're back on U.S. soil. She tromps above you, mocking your silent keyboard. Things are brewing, you tell her. Good wine, and it's cheap. * A colleague Fed Exes to ask your help-- the department is hiring a new theorist: write a letter supporting her or else they'll hire somebody like that ass.... Your colleague helped you a few years back with that Thing-with-the-Student. Hurry, she writes. Oh, sweet inspiration! The words flow, effusive and generous: Impressive credentials... The ideal colleague... Important doesn't begin.... Feverishly, you work late into the night. No dinner for me, you tell the painter, I'm working! |
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