The
campus of West Kansas Agricultural University was sprawling and dusty and
filled with giant aluminum sheds that were actually classrooms. On the website it had looked normal, quads
and green grass and students gossiping on benches and playing frisbee. But walking through it with Lee, Gavin felt
like he was in some kind of PBS special about industrial farming. The air had
kind of a sewage smell—manure—especially
strong when the wind got into his nose.
They
followed cement paths, passing professors in overalls, male students in cowboy
hats, female students in high-necked t-shirts and dusty sneakers. None of them were doing anything like gossiping
or frisbee. A couple squinted their eyes
at Gavin in his suit pants and blazer, but mostly they just looked distant and
busy, like they had some really important cattle ranching business on their
minds.
“That’s
horticulture.” Lee pointed at one of the
shed buildings. He was wearing khakis
and a striped polo shirt, standard hip professor. Gavin tried to imagine him lecturing to a
classroom full of cowboys.
“I
think they keep tractors in there.”
Another shed, this one with rolling garage doors. Behind
it, the only two-story building so far, with stylish orange doors to offset the
steel. “That’s animal sciences. They’re
the biggest major on campus. And
agribusiness is over there.”
A
low noise was building from somewhere back behind the buildings, siren sounds
catching a ride on the manure-scented wind.
“Cows. There’s a giant field of them behind that
building. They start mooing pretty loud around feeding time. Hey.” He nudged Gavin’s arm, steered him to
the left, off the path and into the packed dirt. “We should go check them out.”
They
cut over to another path that led past a statue of a cowboy riding a horse,
between two buildings, and then there they were: about maybe a thousand
cows. Big cows, medium cows, baby cows.
Brown cows, mostly, some white with brown spots, a few black and white
ones. A mass cow migration towards the
covered area on the side of the field, walking and mooing and pushing each
other’s butts with their heads. The
closest ones were twenty feet away, just on the other side of a road and a low
fence.
Lee
stared like a movie actor out across the field, his curls blowing in the
poop-scented breeze. “When you envisioned your first professorship, were there
a lot of cows?”
Something
welled up from Gavin’s stomach, a burst of emotion.
No, no cows! Never in a million years! This place is SO WEIRD HOW DO YOU STAND IT IF
I HAVE TO MOVE HERE I AM GOING TO LOSE MY FUCKING MIND.
It
wanted to come out as a laugh or a sob or some kind of pain-noise. He squashed it down, covered it with a cough.
“They’re
nice.” Good, diplomatic. He straightened his tie, wiped his sweaty, dusty
forehead. “It’s like being in nature
while you’re at work.”
“Sure,”
Lee said. “Like a forest ranger or
something.”
They
stared at the field of cows for a few minutes.
It actually was sort of nice, calming like the ocean. The chilly green northern California ocean
that was beautiful to look at but not in a way that made you want to get close
or swim in it. The cows were like that, relaxing or maybe hypnotic, meaty brown
flowers shifting and undulating in the wind.
“Can
you raise chickens in your back yard here?” Gavin asked.
Lee kind of snort-laughed. “Front yard, back yard. In your house.”
They
took a different path back to the center of campus, past a building that looked
like a Southern plantation, white and grand with porches and benches and a
healthy green lawn in front of it.
“The
office of the president,” Lee said. It
looked familiar, and then Gavin figured out why. He had seen it on the university website. Except the real-life version didn’t have any
students frolicking in the grass or reclining on benches. A couple geese were hanging out on the lawn,
having a kind of lazy head-poke battle over something buried in the grass, but
otherwise it was deserted.
“Up
there is English.” He pointed at a
trailer building off to the left. “Two
classrooms, the writing center and a conference room. That’s where you’ll be giving your talk
tomorrow.” He shrugged, like he was
sorry he couldn’t offer something better.
“Do you want to look inside?”
Gavin
nodded. Sure, definitely. Of course somebody applying to be an English
professor would want to go into the English building. Even if he didn’t, it would look pretty weird
if he refused. But he got it: the building was butt-ugly on the outside, and
the inside wasn’t going to be any better.
They
walked up about eight metal stairs that shook under Lee and Gavin’s combined
weight, like they led to the top of a playground slide instead of a facility of
higher learning. Just inside the front
door was a receptionist’s desk, but it was empty, nothing on it but some dust
and a box of paperclips. Posters covered
the wall behind it: two with quotes and illustrations from Paradise Lost, a definition and examples of dangling modifiers
(Gavin could never remember what those were, but he didn’t have time right now
to read the poster), a giant signed photo of Maya Angelou.
One
of the classrooms was being used, but Lee took Gavin into the other one. Pretty average, with office carpet, dry-erase
boards, some kind of plastic paneling on the walls. Desks packed so tight you’d have to turn your hips sideways to get to your seat.
Jomo’s
deep voice was rumbling from the classroom next door. Something
something postcolonial perspective something Michael Ondaatje something Achebe
something modernity something. Does anyone agree?
Lee
pressed on a bulging section of wall panel, banged on it with the side of
his fist. It flattened out, but one corner came loose from the
wall.
“This
is a temporary building. They were supposed to put up a permanent one but the
college ran out of money. That was like twelve years ago.”
“You
were here?” Gavin couldn’t imagine any reasonable person staying in this place
for twelve years. Well, Paula had, for
seventeen, but that kind of just proved the point.
“How
old do I look? I’ve only been here two years.”
Two
years. That made more sense. Even with the gray streaks running through
his dark curls, Lee didn’t seem too much older than Gavin, mid-thirties at
most. The way he was leaning against a
desk, hip thrust out, one hand braced like a kickstand, he looked not like a
prospective employer but just a guy, someone Gavin might have taken a class
with. Someone who, only two years ago,
had taken this same campus tour, visited this same building for the first time,
probably been filled with the same terror of empty space and isolation.
“Do
you like it?” Gavin asked.
“What,
working here? Yeah, sure. I mean, it’s good to have a job.” Lee turned his head, scanned the room like
something in it could help him respond. Gavin looked, too. The back wall was covered with handwritten
posters illustrating correct comma usage.
“The students are pretty interesting.
And being in small department means you have a lot of power. Like Jomo was only hired last year and now
he’s on the hiring committee.”
“Do
you have friends here?”
“Um,
friends.” Only use a comma with a coordinating conjunction if it connects two
independent clauses. “Me and Jomo go
out and get a beer sometimes. And
there’s a couple guys in the math department I get along with. So, yeah.” Never
use a comma to connect two coordinated items that are not independent
clauses. “It’s hard, because
everyone’s really spread out. Like, Jomo
rents a room on a farm and I live in the trailer park. Plus I go to Maine like twice a month to
visit my girlfriend.”
Wow,
from Kansas to Maine? Out of the frying pan into the fire.
“That’s
pretty far.”
“She’s
doing a creative writing MFA out there. I know. What are you going to do with a creative writing degree? I used to tease her about it."
Lee looked right at Gavin, started to sit on top of one of the desks. Stood again, went to the door, looked outside, closed it. Gently, but the wall wobbled from the impact.
He
sat back down, this time wedging himself into the chair proper, and motioned for Gavin to join him. For Gavin, it took some work. He could only
push the chair back about a foot before hitting the desk behind it. They were the heavy, impossible to move kind
of desks, the opposite of the ones in Gavin’s classroom. If you could manage to lift one up and throw
it, it would easily smash right through the plastic walls. Gavin slid one leg into place, maneuvered his
gut under the desk, swung the other leg in.
Lee
leaned in and lowered his voice. “Do you
have any other job offers?”
Jomo’s
voice rose and fell in a counterpoint with Lee’s: colonization, subjected to the norms of the dominant culture, loss of
identity.
“You
don’t need to tell me,” Lee said. “But
honestly, it won’t make a difference in your hiring process. You’re the only
active candidate right now.”
Fuck. This was some kind of test. Never
use a comma alone to connect two complete sentences. Gavin searched Lee’s face for signs of
deception, of dangerous power. But he was still just a guy: not a professor, but a guy with a lonely job
in a temporary building.
“I
had a fly-back at this place outside LA, Santa Clarita,” Gavin said. “They were supposed to call me in less than a
month, and it’s been—” What date was
that? Oh, right. “Pretty much exactly a month.”
“You
should take that position, if you get it.”
If
this was a test, the test was getting really fucking weird.
The
room was quiet, and Lee looked around, nervous. But then Jomo’s voice started up again. Essay
due in two weeks, rough draft next week.
“You’re
going to get offered this job. Unless you piss off Paula. Or if you really screw up your talk or
something. You’ve given it before?”
Gavin
nodded. “At Santa Clarita.”
“It
went okay?”
“They
seemed to like it.”
“Good. So yeah, we’ll probably be offering you the
job as soon as your visit is done.
That’s my guess.” Lee stopped,
made sure Gavin was paying attention, like they were planning a bank robbery or
something. “Don’t accept right away.
Find out if Santa Clarita has hired you first.”
Gavin
kind of felt like covering his eyes, lowering his face to the desk like his
students did when he gave them too much information. Test over! Please! Instead he scanned the grammar posters.
Introductory phrases.
Items in a series.
Parallel construction.
This
wasn’t comforting at all. No wonder he
never taught any grammar.
“Hey,
can I ask you something about Liam Stump?” Lee was out of heist mode now, back to normal
speaking voice. Which was good, because
it sounded like Jomo’s class was getting out, lots of shuffling and talking
from the other side of the wall.
Gavin
nodded.
“As
a classicist, I was always taught that the function of theater is pedagogical. You know, illustrating mistakes and teaching the right way to live. I guess I was wondering, what are we supposed
to learn from The Divine Sharpness in the
Heart of God? Like, what point is it
trying to make?”
“There
is no point,” Gavin said. “That’s the point.”
The
familiar question, the stock answer, but something felt different about
it. No
point. It was like he’d never
understood his own argument before. The
words weren’t just something he repeated like a mantra, waiting for their meaning to manifest.
They were real, scenting the air like manure, heavy as the
desk trapping him here.
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