William Gass - Middle C

So for them, the world is flat — car, plane, train, flat — Smullion said, not round, but flat, like the map says in the glove compartment.

We used to have a good softball team, but intramural play is too costly. We were supposed to play Rochester. As if it were another frat house, you know, next door. Mort’s pencil had been pressed, point first, through the side of his Styrofoam. Now he slowly removed it.

Had he a cup, he would have begun to crimp its rim. But no cup had been set for Skizzen. Not a good sign.

“Geography” doesn’t mean geography anymore, Carson said. It’s all about the cultural atmosphere of a place — who it is, not where. Its classes used to teach climate; they used to teach soil; they figured addresses — lat. & long. — for entire countries, on a ball made for soccer. Now the geographer doesn’t much care where rivers go or even what sort of boat sails on them. A barge of coal, salt, or ore. It cares, maybe, about how and when our rivers turned into canals, how they were made to behave — commit no floods in future. Oh, and they are interested in the people or organizations that profited from the traffic or who grew money from the former marsh that now sports corn.

Smullion wondered whether the committee was supposed to be deciding what geography ought to be.

I can tell you: it’s all about the anthropology of places, not the place of a place; not raindrop amounts but the numbers of men those drops wet. Once “location, location” referred to sunlight and water, elevation and soil, now it means subways, saloons, and schools. A verdant valley has no place until we turn it into a colony. What counts: whose colony is it, who lives there, how many miles of suburb can it boast?

So Carson, the way he was carrying on, must have been appointed to that hiring committee, Skizzen thought. But what was this all about? Flood control? That wouldn’t be a problem for Woodbine, Urichstown maybe. Ah … that’s it … that far back …

Clearly, President Palfrey said, we have someone in Professor Carson who could do the job, but he has kept his light buried beneath the basket. The president’s tone suggested that it was a little late for the history department to step in. But what happens now, when we have a fraud in the stirrups … I should say a fake in the firehouse … a cheat in the chapel … that’s it, a cheat in the chapel.

What did he do, exactly? Brave Mort asked this question.

He misrepresented his qualifications. Wildly.

Who?

Hursthouse, of course. Who else does geography?

Do we do geography?

Part-time.

Why would he want to teach geography part-time?

To wear the honorable colors of the school.

You joke. What a courageous fellow Mort was, Professor Skizzen decided.

Not for a moment. It is an honor, I say, to teach here. Don’t you think it is an honor?

He owns the furniture store.

That’s somebody named Leonard.

Hursthouse bought him out.

The fat guy?

Why would we hire someone so heavy he has to have help getting around?

We are an equal opportunity employer.

You are thinking about the shoe store.

Part-time is hardly opportunity.

What about the shoe store?

How long has he been on the mound?

What?

Pitch — teaching. When did he start?

Three years ago. Three years of shame. On us.

All we can do is fire him.

That damned newspaper will love this.

All the Styrofoam cups had been damaged beyond use by this time, Skizzen noticed. He’d never have one of his own. You could draw on the side with your fingernail. His blood was slowly returning to him. What a dastardly deed, he said amid the hubbub. Skizzen trusted no one, and nothing is what he should have said.

We look bad, whatever we do.

Wait a minute. The term isn’t over yet. How many are enrolled?

Four. The dean seemed flustered.

Four? Is that all? Four? Palfrey shook his wattles. I was told the course would draw dozens.

It did a bit better at the beginning.

In that case, just wait until the semester ends and tell him you have to close down the class because of too few funds, Miss Hazlet said. She seemed quite sure of herself. He won’t know he’s been found out; he’s not likely to complain; nothing scandalous has occurred; no breach of our hiring rules has been broken; the fat caucus can’t complain. A lack of students … a lack of students is a legitimate excuse. Even a tenured person can be got rid of without fuss if you eliminate their subject. And there won’t be any story.

I don’t know, Joey heard himself saying, despite his silent vow. I think we should throw the book at him, set an example, use this bad situation to reaffirm our principles, and advertise them. This guy took advantage of our goodwill — society’s, too. Who knows what guff he has been stuffing in the students’ ears. He probably doesn’t know where Ames is.

Well, there is something in what you say … Palfrey paused. [……]

Whittlebauer exposes a mountebank. That doesn’t make for an embarrassing story.

It’s still pretty hard to explain.

It might hurt his furniture business.

I was hoping he would be of assistance with our town/gown relations. And there are members of our board who thought we ought to have geography. Palfry released an unhealthy sigh.

What kind of documents did this man profess to have? It might be worthwhile taking a look at his application.

Skizzen believed that Smullion knew exactly what he was suggesting.

No need, no time, for that. It was, I assure you, in apple-pie order. Palfrey put his palm down on the papers before him. His entire weight assisted in the gesture. It fairly flattened his cup.

Who cares about his furniture business? Would you want to buy a sofa from a guy who pretended to have approval from … what was it? … Ames? There Skizzen was, participating again, inviting scrutiny. He tried to chastise himself but even the spears of fear that struck him intermittently did the trick. Like … like Saint … Saint Sebastian … A vow of silence, made silently, is not worth a librarian’s psst. Could this be the trial of someone else?

President Palfrey, Hazel Hazlet said, addressing the president directly, in forming this present committee, its balance must have slipped your mind. There are two people from music. Isn’t that a bit many for such a small group — if they are to represent the entire faculty I mean.

I formed the committee, Dean Funk said with some asperity. I deemed it a good one. After all, I appointed you to it, and you aren’t even a member of the faculty.

I might only say, Professor Smullion said, that any order an apple pie has, is not likely to be found in nature.

I chose the image because it is American. Do you, sir, have something against that? The president pushed his little pad and little pencil into the center of the table, pocketed the sorry remains of his cup, and rose. I have now been properly advised by the Ethics Committee, and I shall proceed as it has recommended.

No one asked what that was.

The president shouldered his way from the room, followed by the dean who, at this moment, did not appear to have any.

Mort said to Skizz: Boy, do I feel foolish. I was afraid I was going to be in the dock for something I did with one of our secs. A transgression just coming to light, a kind of bolt from the past. Pretty dumb, I guess.

That’s what happens when you carry around a guilty conscience. Even without reason, mind you.

Kit Carson said, to no one in particular: I thought Palfrey was going to carve me up. I was on the committee who let this guy perform his sleight of hand. He used his size like a chef with bacon. Mine was the only no vote. There was pressure on Palfrey from someone — maybe on the board or a rich alumnus — to hire this tub. Well, that’s over. What is a no vote worth around here?